


Dancing On Blades

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (there's a cameo), 2018 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Ice Skating, Background Relationships, But not a YOI AU, Dancing, Dancing Stiles Stilinski, Figure Skater Derek, Figure Skater Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, Kate is NOT NICE, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Single Parent Derek Hale, YOI Inspired, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-14 21:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11216547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: When Derek discovers that Mieczysław "Stiles" Stilinski--known for his YouTube videos of skating, not his competitions--is going to be at Nationals, attempting to make the Olympic team, he has to go. After all, Stiles learned ALL FIVE of Derek's Worlds routines and posted video of each one to YouTube. He sees something in this unknown skater, something that only Stiles's reclusive coach seemed to see before. And when Stiles manages to claim one of the three coveted spots, Derek makes an offer that Stiles can't refuse: Derek will coach him to win Olympic gold. The hard part? There are only two weeks between Nationals and the Olympics...





	Dancing On Blades

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD, my darling [mysnarkyself](http://mysnarkyself.tumblr.com/), I could not resist your artwork. I am so thankful to be paired with you; I had a brilliant time with this story. Thank you for letting me be inspired by your YOI AU and take it wandering off into its own direction. This piece wouldn't exist without the inspiration from mysnarkyself, so please go [leave love](http://mysnarkyself.tumblr.com/tagged/sbr-author-tryslora)!!

“Stop looking at your phone. She’s fine.” Laura nudges Derek with her elbow, and he quickly twists his phone from her view.

“I’m not checking in with Erica,” he says blandly. He opens the message stream, shows her the last picture Erica sent of Emily Joy two hours before. His daughter has streaks of chocolate on her chin and one hand lifted as she waves at the camera, and she looks absolutely thrilled to be spoiled. “I know she and Boyd have everything under control.”

“Then what has you so fascinated?” Laura leans closer, tries to make a grab for his phone, but Derek easily keeps it out of her reach.

A grunt from the seat next to him has him pulling back quickly, apologizing to the man sitting there. Derek turns away before he can be recognized, not that he expects anyone will; the scruff covering his jaw changes his face shape, makes him older. Makes it easier to hide in a crowd where everyone should know him.

At the same time, it feels strange that no one knows he’s here.

The phone slips from his hands while he’s not paying attention, and Laura starts rotating through the open apps. She stops when she opens YouTube and her eyebrows go up. “You’re watching skating videos? Of some amateur out of California? Where does he even train? I’ve never heard of him.”

Derek presses his lips thinly together. “He trains under Alan Deaton. And he’s here, skating at nationals.”

“Oh, really? Huh.” Laura makes a thoughtful sound, presses play on the video, then lifts the phone to her ear to hear the faint music. She pulls it away, stares down at the screen. “Derek, is he skating your last Worlds’ routine?”

As the boy on the screen turns gracefully on his blade, executing an intricate set of footwork, Derek takes the phone back and stops the video. “Yes. And he does it well.” He locks the phone, shoves it deep into the pocket of his leather jacket, and hunches in his seat. He nods at the ice. “He’s down there now.”

“Mieczysław Stilinski,” Laura murmurs, looking at her program.

“Stiles,” Derek responds. He’s seen short video clips from his practices, always ending when Deaton tells the person behind the camera to cut the feed. He can pick Stiles out from the pack of skaters by the way his long, lean limbs move on the ice, the strange grace despite the fact that he looks as if he’s a colt with no idea how his legs should work.

“He’s why you said you’d come with me.” Laura smirks. “Now I get it, Derek. Are you angry at him for copying your routines?”

“No.” Derek crosses his arms as the final five men to perform their long program leave the ice. His entire body is tense—he knows most of the men down there. Jackson Whittemore—favorite to win the field, and the best potential that the US has for gold in PyeongChang. Matt Daehler, who is possibly the only skater who’s a bigger asshole than Whittemore. Isaac Lahey—an old friend, and one of the few men currently skating that Derek stays in contact with. Sean Long, a man who is past his prime as far as Derek is concerned, and unlikely to have the stamina for the long program. And of course, Stiles Stilinski.

Long performs first, his music bland and his performance technically perfect, if lacking in originality and difficulty. His lack of stamina is evident in the way he piles his few showy jumps in the first few moves of the routine, saving footwork and spins for the end. His score places him below the highest of the earlier skaters, safely out of the running for the Olympic team.

“You know he doesn’t have a chance, right? Your little nobody?” Laura whispers, leaning her head against Derek’s shoulder. “He’s adorable.” She twists her phone, and Derek sees one of Stiles’s videos playing. “He really likes your choreography, too. He doesn’t have the finesse that you did. Or the stamina to pull off the difficult jumps at the end. He struggles. He’s not going to place above Daehler or Whittemore. Or Isaac.”

Derek grunts, arms crossed more tightly, because Stiles is taking the ice.

This is the first time he’s seen Stilinski’s long program in full. There have been tiny snippets posted, just a few bars of the music, a closeup of some footwork, or a clip of a jump. But this is the first time Derek can see how it ebbs and flows, how the music rises and falls as Stiles alternately rushes through parts or slows down to an aching moment where he nearly stops on the ice. Stiles skates with pure emotion, his heart spilling blood on the ice with every step, his expression and hands telling a tale of unrequited love and fear.

It doesn’t end well, as Derek sees it. Stiles is lost at the end, curled on the ice.

In Derek’s mind, if he were to choreograph it, Stiles would win. This choreography steals from the moment, takes away the punch to the gut that he is positive that Stiles could deliver.

Stiles bows, throws kisses to the audience, and waves the plush bear that he plucks from the ice before he skates off to the kiss and cry.

Derek pushes to his feet, sitting again when Laura yanks on his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she hisses, and he knows she’s right. He shouldn’t leave yet, not with three skaters left to perform. He clenches his fists tightly, waiting for the scores.

The crowd explodes with applause as Stiles scores well above what he needs to push himself into first place. He’s set up to do well; it’s very possible he could take one of the three spots on the Olympic team.

Derek wants him to do exactly that.

“Whatever is brewing in your head, let it be. Watch Isaac.” Laura grips Derek’s forearm, fingers digging into the skin. He stays put; even with the leather jacket, he can feel the strength in her hold. It’s not worth the argument to pull away.

The final three to skate the long program are the three men expected to be on the podium at the end of the night. Whittemore won silver at Worlds, while Daehler and Isaac took fifth and sixth respectively, qualifying the US to send three skaters to the Olympics. But those three skaters wouldn’t be chosen until tonight, two weeks before the prestigious international competition.

Isaac skates a clean routine, precise and graceful as always. He’s a good skater, wearing his heart on his sleeve. His angelic good looks always work for him on the ice, and tonight he plays with that, skating in white with stylized wings upon his back. His scores place him just above Stiles, and as Derek watches, Isaac moves from the kiss & cry to join Stiles off to the side to watch the remainder of the competition.

Daehler fumbles his first quad, two-footing the landing and missing the transition into the second half of the combination, throwing a single instead of a triple. He’s off-beat, skating rapidly to catch up, then over-rotating into the next jump. He stumbles on his way out, caught somewhere between three and four rotations, and goes down, sliding across the ice.

Derek can see his scowl from here, can imagine the ways Daehler curses where no one else can hear him. If Daehler were a better skater, he could recover, but he’s unable to keep his emotions out of play. After his second fall, Daehler skates with a tight body and clean lines, and absolutely no emotion. At the end, he leaves the ice without a bow, ignoring the fall of flowers around him. When his scores place him seventh, he stalks away and disappears into the back.

At the side of the rink Stiles is bouncing, and Derek smiles slightly. With only Whittemore left to skate, Stiles is guaranteed at least bronze. That’s all Derek needs to know; he could leave now, but Laura’s grip on his arm is still tight. And Derek doesn’t feel like explaining his need to leave early.

Whittemore skates as he always does, with carved perfection, like ballet on ice. His jumps are executed flawlessly in the first half, although Derek can see how tired he is in the second, his arm position off and footing less stable. It’s something his coach needs to correct before PyeongChang.

It’s something Derek hopes that Whittemore’s coach chooses to ignore, leaving an opening for a better skater to slip through and take top honors.

As they bring the podium onto the ice, sliding it into place, he carefully disengages from Laura and stands again. “I’ll meet you outside, after the crowds are gone,” Derek says.

“Where are you going?” Laura rises as well, but he motions for her to stay in her seat.

“I’ll text you when I’m ready,” he says. “I have something I need to do.”

He pushes down the aisle, not caring that the other watchers are disturbed that he is leaving early. He needs to be ready and waiting, so when the time is right he can make his offer.

Derek knows what needs to be done, and he knows he’s the only one capable of doing it.

#

Derek ducks curious eyes as he makes his way toward the locker rooms. He hears Stiles before he sees him, voice loud and echoing off of the tiled walls of the hall.

“…Can’t even believe it! I’m going to the Olympics, Scott.” There’s a pause in the footsteps, a flurry of motion before Stiles yells out, “I’m going to the Olympics!!”

“Pretty sure everyone here already knows that.”

Derek recognizes the voice as the usually unseen person behind the camera. He hurries down the hall, just in time to see Stiles pushed away by another young man with a crooked jaw and ready grin. The man raises his phone, points it Stiles. “Go on, tell the world, I know you want to.”

Stiles inhales, punches the air so that his hoodie swings loosely around his body. “PyeongChang, here I come!” He deflates just as quickly, slicing a hand through the air. “Cut the video, Scotty.”

“Why?” Scott lowers the camera, brows furrowed with concern.

“Because I’m going to the Olympics, and I haven’t got a hope in hell of getting on that podium, Scott,” Stiles says quietly. “This was a fluke. Pure chance. If Matt hadn’t fallen—”

“You’d have beaten him anyway,” Derek says, tone even.

“What?” Scott asks, looking no less confused.

Stiles sidles closer to Scott, elbows him sharply. “Dude. Dude, shut up. That’s Derek Hale.”

“The guy whose routines you keep skating?”

A flush burns across Stiles’s cheeks, highlighting the path of moles dotted along his cheekbone. “Yeah. That Derek Hale.”

Derek presses his lips together, not quite fighting back the smirk. Because of course he’s _that_ Derek Hale. He shoves his hands in his leather jacket, raises an eyebrow and says, “You would’ve fought for it. And it might’ve been close. But you would have beaten Daehler. Or you _should_ beat Daehler; you have more heart, better stamina, and a better instinct for the ice.”

“But?” Stiles tilts his chin, eyes still wide and cheeks still flushed.

“But you need polish. Finesse. And a better program.” Derek smiles, sharp and hungry, because this is why he’s here. “You’re going to the Olympics, Stiles. Starting today, I’m your coach.”

“What?”

Derek stops him, bulls through before Stiles can do more than stand there with his jaw dropped. “I am your coach, and I’ll make you win Olympic gold.”

Stiles blinks, his mouth still open.

“Give me your phone.” Derek holds out his hand, and when Stiles doesn’t move, Derek taps his chest. “Phone. Unlocked, please.”

Stiles reaches into his pocket, fumbles the phone out and juggles it between his hands before he manages to get a good hold on it. He taps in his code, and hands it to Derek. “Why?”

Derek adds a contact for himself to the phone, then texts himself so he’ll have Stiles’s number. “I’ll buy you a ticket east; you’ll be training at a private rink on the Hudson.”

“Giving autographs, Stilinski?” Daehler pushes past Derek, elbowing him out of the way before he stalks close to Stiles, leaning in. “Enjoy the adoring fans while you can,” Daehler hisses. “You only won because I had a bad day on the ice. Don’t worry, I’ll be ready when you panic in two weeks and decide not to skate in PyeongChang. You have to be ready for international competition, you need to have the right mindset. And you don’t. And that’s okay, I don’t mind taking your place.”

He shoulders into Stiles before he pushes between him and Scott, stalking down the hall.

Stiles stares at the floor.

“Dude,” Scott says quietly. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s an ass, you know that.” He lifts his arm and pulls Stiles in for a one-armed hug. “You’ve got this.”

“He’s not wrong.” Stiles pushes Scott away, looks back at where Derek stands, arms crossed, waiting for an answer. “This is my first _Nationals_. I’ve never been to an international competition. At all. And we’re talking about the Olympics. This is huge.”

Derek hands Stiles back his phone. “Which is why you’re going to train with me. Alan’s good—I’m better. I’m a five time—”

“World Champion,” Stiles finishes the statement, something sparking in his expression. “You took silver in Turin, in your first international competition, and you took gold in Vancouver. You were the favorite for Sochi, but you dropped out of competition before Worlds, reappeared long enough to win Nationals, then disappeared again and sent an alternate for the Olympics. We didn’t even medal in the men’s competition that year. And you—you completely disappeared from public view.”

“Maybe if you’d made it to Nationals that year, we would’ve had a champion,” Derek says with a small huff of a laugh.

Stiles’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head, throwing it back as he laughs. One hand clutches his stomach, his shirt riding up, as the laugh shakes his entire body. “Oh God, no, no, I wasn’t ready. I started late, see. I thought I wanted to play hockey, and in fact, I did play hockey. For years. Then I went to college, and I met Alan—who dragged me away from being a bench-warmer for the hockey team and into the rink at godawful hours for the last four years. Scotty, here, has been my videographer of my transformation into the mess you see before you.”

“You like to put yourself down.”

Stiles shrugs. “It keeps me humble if I’m realistic, unlike certain asshats in this sport.”

“You can win,” Derek says quietly. He’s seen the video, recognizes the potential in the way Stiles skates. He’s got something different than the other men in the field. Maybe it’s that he didn’t grow up in the sport, maybe it’s just that he still sees it all through new eyes. Whatever it is, Derek can work with it, and he can turn Stiles into a champion. “Think about it if you need to, and call me when you decide. I’ll pay for your trip east. You’ll train with me intensely for the next two weeks, and we’ll travel to PyeongChang. You’ll come back with that medal. I guarantee it.”

“You can’t guarantee anything,” Stiles tells him.

“Yes,” Derek says, “I can. If you’re on a red-eye tonight, we’ll be on the ice in the morning. It’s up to you, Stiles.”

When Stiles stares at him without answering, Derek turns, takes a step away.

There’s a soft oomph, the sound of one body knocking into another. “Wait,” Stiles calls out, before Derek makes it any further.

Derek turns back, raises an eyebrow.

“My passport has my legal name, so put that on my ticket,” Stiles says. “And I’ll fly out tomorrow, because I can’t leave without talking to Alan, and my Dad. Text me the flight information.”

“I’ll have a car pick you up at JFK,” Derek says. He shoves his hands back in his pockets, stares down Stiles until Stiles takes a step back. “You’re losing a day of training, so I’m going to send you video. Review it. Be ready to discuss and practice as soon as you’re on the ice. It’s obvious you’re good at imitating other people’s routines. We’ll start with the snippets I’m going to send, then I’ll show you how to make them your own.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” Stiles nods several times. “I’ll be there.” He takes a step, pauses. “Did you say you’d have a car pick me up?”

Derek has spent a lot of his career keeping people away from his personal life. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t think about the cost, don’t think about anything, just think about the ice.”

“He must be loaded.” Scott’s whisper carries as Derek walks away, and Derek’s shoulders hunch against it. He’s willing to throw his money around when he needs to, but he dislikes it when others pay attention to it. Take advantage without him offering.

“Holy crap.” Stiles’s breath hisses out, his whisper equally loud.

Derek slows his steps, listening even when he knows he shouldn’t.

“That was Derek Hale,” Stiles says. “ _Derek Hale_.”

“I know who Derek Hale is,” Scott replies in the tone of someone who’s heard something said far too often. “I remember the time you spent an entire week watching his long programs over and over, until you could do each one perfectly.”

It only took him a week? Good. Then two weeks will be more than enough time.

“But… that’s Derek Hale. He wants to train me.”

“And you’re going to be awesome.” The sound of Scott slapping Stiles’s back echoes off the walls.

“And you’ll be there to—wait.” A shuffling sound, and Derek’s phone pings.

Silence behind him, and Derek realizes that if he can hear them, they can hear him. And probably know that he’s been listening.

His cheeks heat as he lengthens his stride, turns the corner and walks into the main entryway, where happy fans still mill about, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite skaters. He leans against the wall as he pulls his phone out, checks the message.

_Hey, dude, do you think I could bring Scott? I’ve never done this without him._

Something goes tight in Derek’s chest. He hasn’t seen a single video that wasn’t shot by Scott, the invisible voice behind the camera. He’s a part of Stiles’s life, but Derek’s not entirely sure he wants Scott there as Derek trains Stiles. Scott would be a distraction.

Still. He wants Stiles focused, not thinking about the changes in his life. New training and new routines is already going to be a big change. Cutting him off from Scott could be one thing too many.

_Fine. Send me his information and I’ll book a ticket for him as well._

Derek shoves his phone back in his pocket just in time to see Laura striding toward him. Now he just needs to explain this madness to his sister.

#

“So basically, this kid learned all your routines, and apparently idolizes you, so you decided to adopt him,” Erica says. She leans on the wall around the rink, her elbows propped on the wood. Her gaze is turned away from Derek, fixed on Boyd, who skates slowly around the rink with Emily Joy holding onto his fingertip.

Derek smiles softly at the sight of his daughter on skates. She may be only five, but she’s at home on the ice, as if she was born to be there. Which doesn’t surprise him.

“Basically, yes,” Laura says.

Derek glares at her.

“You’re mushy-eyed over your daughter, or you’re daydreaming about Stilinski.” Laura shrugs. “Either way, you weren’t answering Erica, and besides, anyone with eyes can see what you’re doing here.”

“And what’s that?” Derek asks dryly.

“Training a new you.” Laura glances at the door, but it doesn’t slide open. “Only this you is late, which you never were. But seriously, if he’s a young you, is this some weird kind of mental masturbation?”

Derek presses his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. “Laura, never say masturbation with me in the room again.”

Laura laughs brightly. “Derek, you’re turning thirty in a week, and you still get embarrassed when your sister talks about sex. Get over it. I do it, you’ve obviously done it,” she gestures at his daughter, “We all do it. I’m pretty sure Erica and Boyd do it.”

“Often,” Erica says. “Like bunnies. I might be able to persuade Boyd to let you watch if you’re wondering just how good it is.”

“Stop,” Derek mutters.

Laura’s eyebrows go up. “Really? I’m in a dry spell. I might take you up on that.”

Laura looks far too interested in the idea for Derek’s comfort—those are mental images he does not need to have. He’s relieved when the slide of the heavy double doors interrupts them.

“Whoa.” Stiles stops with the doors still wide open, letting in a stiff breeze from the outside winter air. “You weren’t kidding. You have a fucking full-size indoor rink.”

Scott shoves at him from behind with one hand, the other carrying his phone like a camera, trained on Stiles. “Don’t be rude; get inside, introduce yourself to the people you don’t know, and let’s close the door. You weren’t raised in a barn.”

“Yeah, but Dad usually says I act like I was.” Stiles steps in, pulls the doors closed before he walks over to the benches and drops his gear. “This is pretty fucking amazing.”

“Need me to start a swear jar?” Erica asks.

Stiles blinks, gaze narrowing in confusion. “Are you kidding?”

“As long as my daughter’s in the rink, you will not curse,” Derek says. He watches Stiles’s gaze shift, his head tilt as he takes in Boyd and Emily Joy out on the rink. “Erica, take Emily over to the practice ice—”

“There’s more ice?” Stiles interrupts, closing his mouth quickly when Derek raises an eyebrow. “Right, because of course you have a practice rink, too. For jumps? Nice tight, confined space? Do you have a truss? I mean, not that I’ve ever used one, but I’ve heard it helps sometimes….” His voice trails off as Erica skates onto the ice, intercepting Boyd and Emily and herding them off to the other side.

“You’re here to work,” Derek says quietly. “You learned all five of my Worlds routines in a week. You can learn your new long program—and tighten up the short—in the just less than two weeks that we have before we get on that plane to Korea. You’re not here to socialize with Erica or my sister, and you’re definitely not here to spend time with my daughter. You’re here to become the gold medalist that I know you can be. So let’s get started.”

“Sure. Yeah.” Stiles drops onto the bench, pulls off his boots and starts lacing up his skates. “Scott.” He motions to the wall where Laura still stands, silently watching. “You do—” He mimes tapping on a phone in his hands.

“No.”

Scott drops onto the bench next to Stiles, their bodies aligned hip to hip, knee to knee. They look up at Derek with twin expressions of confusion. “No?”

Stiles pushes to stand up, his skates only half-laced. Scott stops him with a hand on his knee, and Stiles settles back onto the bench. Derek’s lips press together at their easy familiarity. “No,” Derek snaps, voice tight.

“Scott’s gotten video of almost every practice I’ve ever done,” Stiles protests. “He takes video, I review it. That’s how I work. It’s impossible for me to see what I’m doing wrong without it.”

“That’s where Alan was wrong,” Derek grumbles. “You aren’t the one who should be looking for your problems. That was his job, and he obviously didn’t do it well. Now it’s mine. You don’t need that video anymore, and I don’t want to risk any hint of this new program getting out before we are on that plane. The only person whose eyes matter any more is me. I’ll tell you what you need to work on, and you need to trust me.”

“Scott’s not going to post anything I don’t want posted,” Stiles says, expression tight and mutinous. He bends his head, focuses on getting his laces just right. “I like having the video. I like being able to have that feedback.”

“Do you trust me?” The words fall flat into the space between them when Derek speaks.

A moment later, Stiles tugs on his laces, then looks up, blinking, his amber eyes wide. A faint flush spreads across Stiles’s cheeks, starting at his nose and pushing outward. “I decided to go to Nationals because of you,” Stiles says slowly. Carefully. “I learned your routines, and I decided that if you could do it, I could do it. You were amazing on the ice. And I can do everything except bring that emotion. You were like sex on skates… I look like a baby deer trying to stand upright. But people seem to think it works for me.”

There’s heat under Derek’s skin. He’s all too aware of Scott staring at Stiles, of Laura looking out at the ice with her head cocked, listening to them. Derek licks his lips, and Stiles ducks his head, stares back at the floor.

Derek clears his throat, does it again until Stiles looks up. “You are going to be better than me,” Derek tells him. “You are going to exude sexuality on the ice; you’ll be the seducer, not the one tossed away at the end of the program. You will go to PyeongChang, and you will shock the skating world by coming out of nowhere and skating away with gold.”

“I’m not sexy,” Stiles says quietly, and the heat blooms in Derek’s chest.

“The only view here that matters any more is mine,” Derek reminds him, the words catching in his throat. “Get out on the ice and warm up. We have a lot of work to do.”

#

They spend hours on the ice, with Derek refining the first half of Stiles’s long program. It’s not a bad program; it just doesn’t deliver on the initial promise laid out in the choreography. He has Stiles do each piece, then works with him to alter the footwork on his jumps, adding solidity and flow. He checks hand position and foot position, moves in close to tug him upright, help him find the exact correct line for his body. They only make it through the first half, and Stiles is already dripping sweat, his arms drooping.

It’s actually a good day’s work. Better than Derek thought they’d do.

“Take a break,” Derek says. Stiles puts his hands on his knees, and bends over, gliding across the ice. Derek drops a hand on his shoulder and Stiles twists, stopping abruptly and straightening up so fast that he almost falls.

It’s a miracle that Stiles doesn’t fall on the ice constantly. He’s a constant bundle of abrupt motion, and ice doesn’t forgive. But somehow Stiles saves himself every time.

“You’ve done well,” Derek tells him. “But we’ve still got a lot to do. Get a drink, cool down. No more jumps, nothing intense.” He nods at where Scott’s leaning on the wall, watching. “You can let him take video now.”

“I hate you a little for that,” Stiles mutters. “You say I’m doing okay, but how do I know I’m actually doing okay?”

“Trust me.” Derek squeezes his shoulder, then pushes away and heads off the ice.

He takes off his skates, feeling awkward and flat-footed without the blades. But it’s easier to climb up to the balcony and look down on the ice, mapping out next steps of Stiles’s routine in his mind.

It’s peaceful this high above the ice. Laura is talking quietly to Scott at the wall, and Stiles sits on a bench, drinking out of a thermos that Laura brought in halfway through the day. Up here, Derek can think without emotions clouding what he imagines.

He can try, anyway.

He pulls his phone out, switches to Stiles’s YouTube channel, and brings up a favorited video. It’s not one of the skating videos, but a night out, and a rare moment when Scott’s on the other side of the camera. It’s dark inside the club, and there’s a girl’s voice shouting, something unintelligible, but whatever it is, it seems to encourage Scott and Stiles. Scott moves awkwardly on the dance floor, but facing him, Stiles is all liquid motion. His hips flow in a rolling motion that’s all too evocative, and Scott’s dark cheeks are red, obvious even in the dim light. Stiles sinks lower, then slides back up Scott’s body, laughing when Scott nudges him away. Stiles turns, shimmying his hips back, and the girl shouts again, bright laughter and joy.

Derek switches off the video, leans on the rail and looks down at the ice.

That movement. That motion. That easy sensuality and seduction. That’s what he wants Stiles to bring to the ice.

Derek has changed it so that the first half of Stiles’s long program is shy. Careful steps forward and back, like a relationship about to bloom. He switched up the jumps so they are cascading in difficulty. A slightly simpler combination to lure the viewer in, then a difficult and showy jump to display prowess. In the second half, it needs to be all liquid sexuality and control, the culmination of what begins so tentatively.

It’ll be perfect.

A childish shout draws him out of his own mind. He sees Erica at the far end of the rink, Emily Joy pushing through the gate to skate away from her, laughing.

Stiles looks up from his seat on the bench, enters the ice with slow steps.

Derek sees the moment that Emily spots Stiles, her path turning to aim for him.

This isn’t a part of Derek’s plan. His personal life is personal, and far away from his skating life. He doesn’t want Emily involved. She has time before she might emerge onto the ice and into public view. She doesn’t need to be dragged through the questions that will be waiting for her, not yet.

He ducks into the stairwell, moving downstairs quickly. He pauses when he emerges near the benches; Emily’s voice rings clearly across the open space.

“Hi. I’m Emily Joy. What’s a Stiles?”

Derek is still on the edge of the seating space, a perfect vantage point for him to observe without necessarily being seen. He sinks down onto one of the benches, tilts his head to listen.

“I’m Stiles. You could call me Mieczysław, but that’s a mouthful. The only people who call me that are the officials for skating, and my dad if I’ve done something wrong,” Stiles says. He turns as he skates, and Emily turns with him, matching his lazy footwork.

“Do you do a lot of things wrong?” she asks, and Stiles laughs. That same laugh, with his head tilted back and one hand on his belly, full of joy and life.

“More than my dad would like,” Stiles admits. “My mom used to call me Mischief.”

“I don’t have a mom,” Emily says, and Derek’s heart sinks because he’s not sure where this is going. He rises halfway, stopping when Erica skates by the gate and shakes her head, raises a finger to show she’s got this. He lowers himself to sitting again. Listening.

“I don’t have a mom anymore, either,” Stiles admits quietly. “She probably would’ve loved all of this. She used to tell me to follow my heart, and I didn’t really know what that meant then. I thought it was hockey, and I was kind of surprised when it turned out to be this.”

“What happened to your mom?” Emily asks. Derek winces, and Erica skates out to join them, catching Emily’s hand.

“No, it’s okay,” Stiles says, his voice low and hard to hear. He crouches down to Emily’s height, gliding slowly on his skates. “She died, a long time ago. It was really awful when it happened, and I still miss her a lot. Do you miss your mom?” It feels like the kind of question where Stiles is commiserating with Emily, understanding the idea of loss.

Erica’s expression goes tight, her hand on Emily tugging slightly. Emily pulls herself free, ducks down to get close to Stiles. Her whisper carries in the open space. “I don’t have a mommy to miss,” she says. “I’m sorry you lost yours. I didn’t mean to make you sad.” She pats Stiles’s shoulder solemnly, then whirls and skates away, spinning idly.

Stiles straightens up, watches her go. “I had no idea,” he says, and Erica snorts dryly.

“Did you think there might be a reason for that?” When Stiles turns to look at her, Erica continues, voice firm. “Don’t try asking Emily Joy about it, and don’t bother asking me, either. Or anyone else here. That’s Derek’s story to tell, and he values his privacy. You’re here to skate, not pry into his life.”

“It’s kind of hard to ignore the kid on the ice,” Stiles says, gesturing at Emily.

Emily stops spinning and waves at him. She smiles brightly, and for a moment Derek can see her mother in her face, the way the lighter curls frame her cheeks, and the bright, showy smile.

He wishes he didn’t see her at all, that Emily was all Hale. Unfortunately that’s not how genetics work.

Emily trips away through a series of steps that attempt to mimic what Stiles was doing earlier. At the point where he would jump, she twists and hops, just barely clearing the ice before she lands on two feet and skates backwards, her hands thrown wide in triumph.

Stiles cheers, and Emily bows.

“You do it,” she says, and Stiles glances upwards, frowning as he looks at the balcony.

Erica glances at Derek, and he touches one finger to his lips, staying silent and trying to shrink back into the shadows.

Stiles twists in place; Derek can see the moment that Stiles chooses to ignore Derek’s direction of no more jumps. His jaw sets, and playfulness lights his amber eyes, sparking something bright and alive. He skates once around the rink, then shifts into the footwork sequence, blades sharp and quick against the ice. He comes out on one blade, skating backwards before he launches into the jump, twisting in the air.

Emily is clapping as Stiles lands neatly, drops into a spin before finishing with a flourish.

“I like you,” Emily says, skating up to Stiles with her hands held out. He reaches for her and she takes his hands, then shifts her weight to skate backwards. She doesn’t have enough strength to pull Stiles properly, but he lets her draw him forward. Tiny motions of his skates give him enough velocity to let her tug him as she skates backwards.

“You’re not as good as my daddy,” Emily confides. “But that’s okay, you don’t have to be. Daddy says you’re going to win a gold medal in the Olympics, and my daddy is always right.”

“You don’t even know me,” Stiles says, bemused.

“My daddy is _always_ right,” Emily says firmly. “You just need to practice. I want to go see you skate, too. Can I come?”

“To Korea?” Stiles stumbles and Emily ducks in closer, reaching up to get her hands on his waist as if she can hold him upright. He catches himself, carefully takes her hands again with a solemn thank you. “I think that’s a question for your dad.”

“I’ll ask him and he’ll say yes,” Emily says with a small smile. “He always says yes.”

Emily pulls Stiles across the ice, moving away from where Derek sits. Erica skates to the gate and comes through. She ducks into the space where Derek hides and drops onto the bench next to him. “Can’t hide forever,” she says, and Derek isn’t sure whether she’s talking about his current position or Emily Joy.

“Seems to be working for the moment,” he grumbles.

On the ice, Stiles guides Emily through a careful twirl. He’s cautious with her, gentle as they skate together.

Derek is charmed.

“You’re staring,” Erica whispers. “And you’re right, he’s good. He can own that ice. Just try not to get distracted. You’re his coach, right?”

“Right.” Derek lets his breath out in a huff. Coach. No distractions. He gets the feeling he’s bitten off far more than he can comfortably chew. Not to mention that Stiles…. Derek drags himself away from the thought, focuses on his daughter skating cheerily.

“So. How bad is it going to be if I take her to PyeongChang?”

Erica snorts, elbows him. “If? You can’t say no to her, and you don’t want to be away from her for the two weeks you’d be gone. Don’t you already have her passport?”

Derek makes a small noise; he’s had her passport for a month. Since he first saw video of Stiles skating his first World’s routine.

Erica nods even though he hasn’t said anything. “You need to think about whether you want to do something ahead of time, or just show up in Korea with your daughter. And whether you’re going to talk to her, too.” Derek’s pretty sure she’s not talking about Emily, and Erica confirms it when he says, “She’s skating in Korea, you know.”

“She’s too old to place. Past her prime.”

“But not too old to qualify to go.” Erica pushes to her feet as Emily waves wildly, starts yelling for her and Daddy. “Better figure out how you’re going to handle it. You emerging from isolation is going to be news. And some of that’s going to reflect back on Stiles, too. His first big international competition, and riding your coattails, while the world’s distracted by Emily Joy’s pretty smile. Start figuring it all out now, Derek.”

That’s the problem. Derek has no idea, and he doesn’t think he’ll have answers by the time they get on that plane, either.

#

“I don’t want new music.” Stiles stands with his feet spread, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Music plays in the rink, echoing around them, and Derek knows every beat, can imagine the routine capturing every shift and change in the song.

Derek scowls. “You need new music. This will fit part of your old long program with minor changes—building on what we did yesterday—and let us finish it with strength. With that seduction that you need to draw the judges in.”

“Derek, I have less than two weeks!” Stiles protests. “When you said changes, I thought you meant switching my jumps, fixing my foot position. What we worked on yesterday. Those are fantastic changes to my combinations. But not an entirely new routine!”

“You learned my Worlds programs in a week,” Derek says mildly, crossing his arms to mirror Stiles’s position.

“Yes,” Stiles mutters. “It’s not the same—”

“You learned all five gold medal Worlds programs in a single week.” Derek doesn’t let him finish, emphasizing the number quietly. “I’ve seen the video, Stiles. They weren’t perfected, but that doesn’t matter. You learned the steps, the jumps, the beats of the music. This is one program—half, really, once we refit the first half to the new music.”

“He has a point,” Scott says, lowering his phone.

“Are you taking video?” Derek asks, stepping toward him, reaching for the phone.

Scott steps back, holding the phone to his chest. “Texting,” he responds.

Derek lowers his hand, looks to the ice. “Erica,” he calls out. “Restart the song when I’m in position. I want to show Stiles what we’re going to do.”

She’s sitting by the sound board, raises a thumb while Emily Joy echoes the motion. Emily waves to him then, and Derek skates onto the ice with his hand raised, and his daughter watching.

He hasn’t known Stiles long—hasn’t had much time to prepare his routine—but Derek has gone over it so many times in his head that he can’t forget each step. He doesn’t know how other coaches would do it, how they would handle the choreography, but for Derek, it’s personal. As the first notes sound, he glides across the ice, slides into the first lazy spin, arms reaching out to draw the viewer in.

Stiles stands upright by the barrier, arms crossed, jaw set.

Fine. Derek will show him what this new program can do.

He goes through the new opening combinations, shy at first, then a show of prowess. In the distance, he can hear applause from small hands, but he doesn’t look up. His attention is entirely upon Stiles, circling away from him before coming back, teasing him with his body, as if enticing him onto the ice with him.

The new music doesn’t shift to something quiet and romantic, rather it ramps up, teases, seduces. It spins faster, and Derek spins with it, twisting with quick footwork that pushes him into a combination. His quad wobbles, but he sticks it, knows he hasn’t practiced nearly enough to throw that jump without warming up. Still. There’s another in the second half, and he nails that one, and the last as well.

There’s no letting up, no stopping. There is nothing shy about the ending, all heat and emotion before he ends up on the ice, sliding on his knees, head almost touching the ice and arms stretched back over his head as the one long note sounds, fading into the distance. He waits, breathes through the long stretch, and as one last strike comes, he pulls up to kneeling, reaching for the audience with his fingers curled.

He’s breathing hard, chest shaking with the effort of finishing the performance.

In the silence, Stiles stares at him, mouth slightly open.

“You think I can do that,” Stiles says slowly. “You think I can perform that routine like you did.”

Derek leans forward, hands on his knees. He lets his body hunch, takes a moment to inhale roughly and hold the air in his lungs; he doesn’t have the same level of stamina that he used to. He pushes one hand to the ice, digs in a toe pick, and leverages himself to standing. He meets Stiles’s gaze as he glides to the gate. “No,” he says quietly. “I think you can perform that routine in your own style. I’ve seen the video you posted from when you went dancing. I know how you can move, and that will be unique. Interesting. You’ll draw the judges in because you won’t be exactly like every other man out there on the ice. I want you to perform this program as _you_ , Stiles. And win.”

Stiles’s gaze drops from Derek’s, skims down the length of his body before he raises his head again, shakes his head once. “That’s not me,” he says quietly.

“Yes, it is,” Derek says firmly. He holds out one hand. “Your program was good, but it ended with you losing. You told a story of a chance at love that was lost. I want to see your confidence on the ice. I want to see you seduce the judges, and in the end, you win their hearts. You win everyone’s hearts. If in the story you tell, you win, then you will win on the ice as well.”

He shakes his hand, waits until Stiles reaches for him, sets long fingers atop his palm. Derek closes his hand around Stiles’s, draws him out onto the ice.

Scott exhales in a loud rush of air, fingers flying across his keyboard. “Still no video,” Scott says, raising the phone. “Just texting. But whoa. Dude. Stiles. Just go with it.”

“I can’t do it,” Stiles says quietly, as Derek leads him into the center of the ice, positions him to begin.

Derek’s hands are on Stiles’s hips, his cheek pressed to Stiles as he leans in close and whispers, “I believe you can. And you will. Trust me.”

Stiles is stiff as they start to move on the ice, but Derek knows he will improve. All he needs is for Stiles to relax.

#

“I’m done.” Stiles leans his elbows on the wall, his head down, ass up, one toe pick dug into the ice to keep him in place. His voice is muffled as he presses his face down against his arms. “I’m so fucking done. Derek. I can’t do this. It’s been so long, and I can’t do this.”

“You can do this.” Derek catches his shoulder, and Stiles pushes him away. “Come back onto the ice. I’ll show you—”

“I’m done,” Stiles repeats, putting more emphasis into the words. There’s a shout in the distance, and Stiles turns abruptly, sinks down to sit on the ice, his back against the wall. “There’s Emily Joy. Saved by the kid. You can’t keep torturing me if Erica’s bringing her to you.”

“I’m not torturing you, Stiles. We’ve worked hard, and you’re close.” Derek crouches down, elbows on his knees. “You’ve got the technique. The new combinations look good. Your body and hand position are better than they were before. There’s just—”

“No life, I get it,” Stiles mutters. “You’ve said it a few hundred times in the last week, Derek. Move your hips, Stiles. Relax, Stiles. Seduce the judges, Stiles. Maybe I’m right, Derek. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I’m fine with the technique but I just don’t have that… that… whatever the fuck it is you’re looking for.”

“Language!” Erica sings out. She nudges the gate open, but doesn’t come out. Emily Joy is wrapped in her favorite winter coat, a scarf up over her chin, and for once, no skates.

“Daddy!” Emily calls. “Aunt Laura said I could stay with her tonight and we could make cookies and eat the dough before we bake it and maybe even paint our fingernails.” Her voice lowers, and she whispers, “She even got me _sparkling grape juice_.”

Stiles’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head. Derek presses one finger to his lip as he whispers back, “She got you special Emily wine? Were you supposed to tell me or was it an Aunty secret?”

“Is it okay?” Emily leans toward him, earnest expression open and concerned. “I said I had to ask.”

Derek’s gaze flicks to Erica. If she’s taken the time to arrange Aunt time for Emily, she’s got something else in mind. “It’s okay,” he agrees slowly. “You have to promise to be good for Aunt Laura, though. Bed on time, no shenanigans.”

“Do I shenanigan?” Emily asks, eyebrows rising.

“Pretty much always, Emily Joy,” Derek replies. He pushes to his feet, skates off the ice to scoop her up, hugging her tight. “Go on back up to the house, and tell Aunt Laura to text me a picture of you in your apron. She got you a new one, after the last flour accident.”

“Flour accident?” Stiles asks, his head tilted back.

“They may have somehow exploded it all over Derek’s kitchen,” Erica murmurs, laughing. “It caked in the washing machine when he threw Emily’s clothes in.”

“It’s not entirely unreasonable to expect to be able to do my kid’s laundry without trauma,” Derek mutters, as Stiles laughs.

“I love you, Daddy.” Emily wraps her arms around him, squeezes hard and plants a wet kiss on his cheek. Then she’s off and running, slipping out the smallest space she can make for herself in the heavy sliding door, and yanking it closed once she’s gone.

“You’re up to something,” Derek says, pushing to his feet and looking at Erica.

“Stiles needs a break,” Erica says.

Stiles nods enthusiastically. “Yes, Stiles was just saying this before you came in.” He flushes. “Sorry, I shouldn’t talk about myself in the third person; that makes me sound like an idiot. Anyway. I’m exhausted. I can’t do what Derek thinks I should be able to do, and I’m tired of getting yelled at. So I need a break.”

Erica tsks softly, and Derek feels something twist nervously in the pit of his stomach. He knows that expression, and it never means anything good for him.

“If you’re exhausted, then maybe you don’t want to go out,” Erica says slowly, thoughtfully. “I mean, Stiles, you could just go up to bed. Sleep the night away while the rest of us go out. Maybe we’ll convince Derek to actually loosen up and have a drink. Get him out on the dance floor.”

“Fuck, we’re going dancing? I’m in.”

“Good.” Erica grins, slaps Stiles’s backside. “Go get yourself cleaned up and ready, and meet us by the dark green minivan.”

“Someone here drives a minivan?” Stiles wrinkles his nose, and Erica raises a finger, pushes it against his forehead.

“You do not say a word against the minivan,” she says calmly. “Boyd bought that monster when he was seventeen and it’s still going now, ten years later. You should be honored that he’s putting the third seat in so that you, Derek, and Scott aren’t squished into one bench. That’s if he’s able to. If the mice chewed it while it’s been stored in the garage, you’re stuck on the one bench. Never know what happens in that garage.”

“The van’s not as much of a deathtrap as it looks like,” Derek admits. His own car is small and fast—perfect for himself and Emily Joy, but not a vehicle for carrying large groups of children. He’s borrowed the minivan, under directions to never show his face in his own house again if something happened to it, when he’s found himself with all of Emily’s friends at once. He might not like it, but he respects the fact that Boyd’s kept it on the road.

“Trust me,” Erica murmurs, shoving gently at Stiles. “And go take a quick shower. You reek. Put on something good for a club.” She nudges again, and he goes to take off his skates and shove his feet into boots before he heads out quickly, like he thinks Derek might make him get back out on the ice.

“You, too.” Erica bumps him with her hip. “I think you’ve forgotten how to have fun. I get it, you’re obsessed with Stiles and you want him to win, but you need to take a break and relax.” She tilts her head, hands on her hips. “Besides. I’ve seen the video. I’ve figured out what you’re trying to do, and maybe you just need to change the venue.”

Derek’s mouth opens, then closes.

She’s brilliant.

“Fine,” he agrees, sitting down to unlace his skates.

“You owe me.”

“No.” He yanks one skate off, then the other, and has to hunt for his boots. It feels odd when he stands on stable ground again, without the need to balance on his blade. He never feels quite right off the ice. “But thank you.”

It takes some time to get washed up and changed into jeans and a t-shirt, pulling on his leather jacket so that he looks club appropriate. No one here cares who he is; he’s just that eccentric guy who lives in the old mansion with his sister, daughter, and another couple. He’s known more for his living companions than his skating, which is how he prefers it to be.

It turns out the mice did chew the old bench from the van. Boyd’s already dropped it off at the end of the drive with a sign saying _free_ , not that anyone’s likely to take it. Luckily the bench still in the van is the one that seats three. Unluckily, Scott and Stiles have claimed the outer seats, and have stuck Derek in the middle, with his feet splayed over the hump in the floor. It’s warm, and awkward, as Stiles leans across Derek in a conversation with Scott that leaves Derek wondering why he didn’t just sit next to Scott in the first place.

The drive into town is the most awkward half hour that Derek’s experienced in a long time. Scott is twisted so that he looks across Derek, but his knee barely touches him. Stiles, on the other hand, simply leans into Derek to get to Scott, his body pressed up against Derek from shoulder to hip to knee. When Stiles gestures and nearly hits Derek in the face, Derek catches his hand, lowers it to his lap, and holds it there while Stiles keeps talking.

He’s not even sure Stiles has noticed.

As soon as they get there, Derek nudges Stiles away from him, and they all spill out of the van. Stiles glances at the bar as soon as they’re inside, then looks at Derek, wary.

Derek raises his hand, one finger pointing up. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll buy the only round Stiles and I are drinking tonight.”

By the time he gets to the table that Erica drags everyone else over to, Stiles has Scott by the hand and is pulling him onto the dance floor. Boyd sits down, chair slightly tipped and arms crossed, while Erica has a phone in her hands, pointing it at Stiles. There’s a sound of female laughter from somewhere, bright and tinny, as Derek approaches.

“C’mon, Scott. You have to dance with me,” Stiles calls out, loud enough that Derek can hear him over the music. Stiles is already moving to the thumping music, hips rotating in that liquid way that first caught his attention.

Derek’s chest goes tight and he stops several steps away from the table, drinks in his hands. Fuck.

“I want my beer,” Boyd says, and Derek turns slightly, remembers that he was going somewhere.

It’s only a few more steps before he can set the drinks down on the table, pushing the tall glass of pilsner toward Boyd and leaving the rest where they are. Derek’s gaze shifts back to the dance floor, where Erica’s still filming as Stiles turns his back to Scott and shimmies close, while Scott awkwardly rests his hands on Stiles’s hips.

There’s another bright peal of laughter from the phone, and a voice calling out, “You get it, Stiles!” Derek thinks he recognizes the voice, and his brow furrows as he tries to remember. Then it hits him: the video of Scott and Stiles dancing. The one he’s watched more times than he cares to count. That’s the girl who was filming.

The song ends, and Scott hurries over to the table, takes the phone and smiles into it before he ends whatever call was being made. Stiles drops into a chair at the table and grabs his drink, raises it in Erica’s direction. “Thanks, Erica. I needed this.”

After Scott and Erica take their drinks, there’s one glass of black & tan sitting on the table. Stiles points at it, then jabs a finger at where Derek’s still standing. “You. Drink your beer and relax. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you relaxed.”

“You’ve only known me a little over a week.” Derek picks up the drink, cautiously pulls out the last chair and drops into it.

“Dude, I have seen interviews with you since you were younger than me,” Stiles says before taking a long pull from his drink. “And you’ve always been driven. Strong. Silent. Motivated and on track. Relaxing is good for you.”

“I know how to relax,” Derek mutters. He takes a sip of his black & tan; there’s no point in rushing the drink. He doesn’t indulge often, and when he does, he wants to savor it. Unlike Stiles who seems to be half done already with his only drink of the night.

“You should see him with Emily,” Boyd says.

“I’ve got pictures of him rolling around on the floor with her.” Erica gets out her phone, but Derek puts a hand over hers, pushes it away. “Spoilsport,” Erica mutters.

Derek leans on the table, moves Stiles’s drink a little further from them both so he’s not distracted.

Stiles makes a face at the movement. “Where’s Scott? I wanted to dance more.”

“You could dance with Derek,” Erica says idly.

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Derek says, only realizing how it sounds when Stiles turns to him, both eyebrows high.

“You wanted to talk to me about dancing with me?” Stiles asks, and Derek feels heat in his cheeks.

“About dancing,” Derek says firmly, because he’s not thinking about being out on the floor in Scott’s place. “The way you move when you’re with Scott. When you’re relaxed. That’s what I’m trying to get you to do on the ice. I want you to skate like you’re on the dance floor with him, and if you have to think about sex to get that looseness to your hips, then do it.”

Stiles blinks. “Sex?”

Erica snorts softly, busies herself with something on her phone. Derek hears the distinct sound of a picture being snapped.

“Sex,” he says, pushing forward because he is damn well going to get his point across. “You dance with Scott like you’re ready to have sex right there on the dance floor. Which—he’s your boyfriend, so that’s fine. So if you need to think about him—about what it’s like seducing him—then do that on the ice. I want that level of confidence and seduction. That’s what’s going to take your long program to the point where you need to be.”

Throughout his speech, Stiles’s mouth has been dropping until it hangs wide open. Stiles blinks several times. “Me?” he chokes out. “And _Scott_? You think we’re—no, God, _no_. Ew. That’s gross. Scott’s my best friend. We grew up together, ever since I kicked over his sand castle when we were five, and we totally bonded over mutually assured destruction in the sandbox. God, he doesn’t even swing that way. That’d be like… he’s like a brother to me. Not boyfriend material at all. Besides, he’s got Allison.”

It’s Derek’s turn to stare blankly, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he tries to follow the explanation. “But you two….” He can’t finish the sentence, still confused. “I’ve seen how close you are. Who’s Allison?”

“Scott’s girlfriend.” Erica leans her chin on Derek’s shoulder, shows him a picture on her phone of a smiling girl with her arms wrapped around Scott. “She sent me this picture, like I might not know it’s her if I didn’t see Scott in the picture, too.”

“She’s the one Scott’s always texting. And who Erica was sending video to while they danced,” Boyd points out mildly. “Not sure how you missed that, Derek.”

“Oh, I can guess.” Erica snickers.

Stiles’s gaze is narrowed, fixed on Derek. “So wait a minute. You want me to move on the ice like I dance with Scott,” he says slowly. “That’s what this last week’s been about, with you grabbing me and moving me around. You’ve been trying to get me to dance with you. That’s what you think is going to make me seductive. That’s what you think is sexy.”

Erica laughs outright.

“Yes,” Derek says, because that’s exactly it. No, wait. Heat floods his skin. Not with Derek. Just… for the judges. “No. I mean—”

“Fine, big guy.” Stiles grabs Derek’s hand, yanks as he stands; Derek goes with him because it’s easier, even though he ends up almost flush against Stiles. “Let’s get out on the floor and you show me your moves. You want to teach me how to move on the ice, show me what you think I should be doing.” Stiles has a determined look in his eye, jaw set and stubborn. Derek isn’t sure if Stiles thinks he’s going to prove him right, or prove him wrong.

Derek stumbles forward as Stiles pulls, following him onto the dance floor. This may be the worst plan Derek has ever had, but if it gets him what he wants, he’ll do it. He needs Stiles to understand, so that Stiles can execute the long program the way Derek sees it in his mind’s eye. He needs Stiles to channel this incredible fluidity on the ice.

Stiles shakes himself out when he gets on the floor, then lets his arms hang as his hips start to move. Derek’s gaze drops, unable to tear away from the way Stiles undulates, hips swinging in fluid motion.

Stiles grins, raises an eyebrow. “You want me to skate like this?” he asks.

Derek coughs, manages to croak out, “Yes. Like that.”

Stiles reaches for him, gets a hand wrapped around the collar of Derek’s jacket and yanks him forward. “I’m listening, so let’s try this again. Show me,” Stiles says.

Derek’s hand lands on Stiles’s ass, slides up to grip the jut of his hip bone. He hasn’t danced in a club in a long time, and the last time… is not something he wants to think about. But he remembers what it’s like to let go, to move just because you want to. He lets his limbs go loose, moves his hips in an echo of the same motion Stiles has. He tugs, and Stiles stumbles closer, fits in close against Derek.

“Like this,” Derek murmurs. He tilts his head to press forehead to forehead with Stiles, eyes locked as they both move in easy concert, flowing together. Stiles snakes one hand over Derek’s shoulder, palms the nape of his neck. Derek has both hands at Stiles’s hips, helping direct him as they dance. There’s little space between them, heat along every space where they touch. Derek’s fingers twitch, tightening against his hip, and Stiles blinks, inhales roughly. His exhale is a soft puff of warm air across Derek’s lips, tasting of beer and musk; when Derek licks his lips, Stiles tracks the motion.

It’s perfect. Natural and easy. It’s everything that Derek wants to see from Stiles on the ice.

And it feels good.

There’s a whoop in the background, and Derek hopes that Erica isn’t filming this to send to Laura. Stiles’s palm against his cheek brings his attention back to the dance floor as Stiles murmurs, “Forget about them and dance with me, big guy. You said this is what you want from me on the ice, right? Well, this is what I want from you right here: for once in your life, just let go.”

Stiles makes it sound so easy. And maybe, for a little while, it can be that easy, letting the night slip away as they dance.

#

“Daddy!”

Derek turns and squats down, opens his arms as Emily Joy barrels into him. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he lifts her, spinning in place as her feet swing out. When he comes to a stop, he tucks her in close on his hip, and she plants a wet kiss on his cheek.

“I thought you needed a break from mooning,” Laura says dryly, emerging from the stairs onto the balcony. “We brought cookies.”

“Last night’s cookies.” Emily takes the plastic container from Laura and solemnly pops the lid, holding it out to Derek. Her eyes go wide, and she looks so hopeful that Derek takes three cookies from the container, and once Emily has closed it, he hands a cookie to her as well. She grins and takes a large bite.

“You’re a softie and a sucker,” Laura murmurs. She budges up next to him on the balcony, leans into him as they both put their elbows down on the rail and look out over the ice. Emily tries to mimic him on the other side, going up high on her toes to see where Stiles skates below.

“What’s mooning?” Emily asks. “Is it because you’re up here in the dark like when the moon is up at night?”

Laura laughs. “Sure, it’s something like that.” She hip checks Derek. “It’s because he’s up here and Stiles is down there.”

Emily nods solemnly, and Derek wonders exactly what his daughter is taking away from this conversation, and how it might come back to haunt him later.

“Stiles needs this time to work on his own, without me getting in the way.” Derek pushes away from the rail, sinks into one of the hard seats. He can still see Stiles from the seat, even if it’s not a perfect view. He doesn’t need to see every step, every motion. Not now.

They’ve been there for three hours already, slipping into the rink long before the rest of the house was awake. Laura and Emily are the first to venture out this morning, and after the late night in the club, Derek suspects the others are still asleep.

He’d woken up to a light tap on his door that morning, and Stiles’s whisper that he was heading to the rink to work. Derek hadn’t bothered to do more than change his clothes, arriving just as Stiles took the ice.

The way Stiles skates is different this morning. Looser. As Stiles shifts his weight from one side of the blade to the other, his hips sway, and Derek leans forward to watch.

After three hours, Stiles finally has it. He pushed Derek away, didn’t want Derek to show him how to move. Instead, Stiles fought through every step that Derek had already shown him in the last week and finally found his rhythm. Each movement is seductive, and Derek is positive that the judges will be seduced.

Derek knows he is.

Stiles slides into the last moves, back arched, hand stretched back, hips raised high like he’s pressing up, begging. He draws out the slide in the crescendo of the music, then raises up just in time, reaching out, fingers curled as they wrap around something unseen, then pull it back toward Stiles, clutching it to his heart.

It’s a change to the choreography, but it works.

When Stiles drops his hand, Derek’s gaze goes with it, follows the path until he stares at Stiles’s waist, at his knees, at the way his belly rises and falls with every labored breath.

Derek pushes to his feet, curls his fingers tight around the railing, and leans out. “That was good,” he yells out, voice echoing back from the other side of the ice.

Stiles’s posture goes tense as he looks up, comes to his feet.

“It was good,” Derek yells again, pointing at the gate. “Take a break. I’m coming down.”

“You might want to just—” Laura gestures at Derek, and he glowers as he shifts his weight, trying to subtly adjust himself to be more comfortable without calling attention to the problem.

“Are you done mooning?” Emily asks, sliding out of her seat and tucking her hand into Derek’s. “Can I come with you? Can we skate for fun now with Stiles? I like him. I’m going to go watch him win with you.”

Derek licks his lips, still trying to find words after that performance. Emily waits, looking up at him, hand clutching his. He huffs a small sigh, ignores the laugh Laura tries to stifle and fails.

“I’m going to go down and work with Stiles on his short program,” Derek says slowly. “Why don’t you two stay up here and watch for a while.”

“Oh yes, I’m happy to stay right here. Perfect vantage point,” Laura says. She has her phone in her hand and Derek jabs a finger at her.

“No video,” he reminds her, and she turns it around to briefly show an entirely text-based conversation.

“Just chatting with Erica,” Laura says. “Remember, we’re all rooting for you.” At Emily’s confused look, Laura adds blandly, “For him to help Stiles win in PyeongChang.”

That’s not what she means at all. Derek wants to tell her to stay out of his business, to just leave him alone and let him do what he’s going to do. Or not do. But if he starts arguing with her in front of Emily, then Emily’s going to want to know more about it.

Not to mention that sound can carry in the rink, and he really doesn’t want to have this discussion anywhere that Stiles can hear it.

“Keep it to chat only,” Derek tells her. “No pictures.”

Laura promises, but he knows she’s lying. If she manages a good picture, it’ll be going straight to Erica. At least he can be certain that they won’t post anything online. They guard Derek’s privacy as viciously as he does.

He grabs his skates as soon as he gets downstairs, sits down on the bench to pull them on. Stiles is leaning back on a bench, a cup of steaming cocoa in one hand. Stiles raises the cup in silent toast, then takes a sip while Derek does up his laces.

“So what does ‘good’ mean in Hale vocabulary?” Stiles asks.

Derek glances over. “It means that we have two days left before we get on a plane, and we haven’t touched your short program yet. That was good. Good enough that we can let it go for now, just work on it a few times a day until we head to Korea.” He ducks his head, feels the heat in his cheeks. He can’t meet Stiles’s gaze. “You finally figured out what I meant,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well, we did practice for a couple hours last night,” Stiles says quietly.

More than two hours on the dance floor, moving to the music with that easy flow of two bodies together. It was everything Derek had expected after seeing the video, only more intense for experiencing it firsthand. In retrospect, Derek gets the feeling he’s been playing with fire, but it did get his point across, and he needed to do that for Stiles to win gold.

When Derek glances up, Stiles is looking out at the rink, the cup sitting on the bench beside him. Stiles sits up straight, hands curled on his knees. His cheeks are red from the cold, his fingers moving constantly, tapping against his thighs. “So,” Stiles says without looking at him. “Are we doing the same thing to the short program?”

“Same music, same basic routine,” Derek admits. “But we’re going to push your limits. And I want to add that same flow to it. You’ve got a unique style; use that. Be yourself on the ice. You’re not Alan Deaton, you’re not Jackson Whittemore, and you’re sure as hell not me. Be Mieczysław Stilinski and show the judges exactly what that means.”

The heavy doors to the rink slide open, and daylight slips in. The sun is higher in the sky, the world much brighter than when they first arrived. Derek smells the coffee that Erica, Boyd, and Scott all carry. When Erica offers him a cup, he waves a hand.

“Keep it for later,” he says. “We’re going to need something to eat in a couple of hours. Which one of you is going into town for curly fries?”

Stiles’s eyes go wide. “You’re getting me curly fries? How much longer do I have to work to get that reward? Because I’m ready to go right now, big guy.”

Derek points at his bag, knows Erica will have no problem searching through it to pillage his wallet. “Bring back lunch for everyone. Burgers, fries, whatever you feel like getting. Ask Emily what she’s in the mood for before you go. When you come back later, it might finally be time for some video.” He raises a hand when Scott reaches for his phone. “Later. And only if I say so.”

Erica climbs the stairs to the balcony while Scott and Boyd head back out. Derek doesn’t really care who stays and who goes; what matters now is the work that’s left to be done.

He follows Stiles onto the ice and motions for him to take his starting position for the short program. They’re going to go through it step by step, jump by jump. Two hours now, and then the rest of the day and all day tomorrow. They don’t have long before it’s time to leave.

#

In order to make it easier on Emily Joy, Derek books a direct flight out of JFK for himself, Emily, and Stiles. It’ll be more than fourteen hours in the air, but they won’t have to stop in another city and change planes. He hopes that Emily will sleep just enough to make the time change work when they land on the other side of the world.

They get on the plane in the middle of the night, with Derek carrying Emily while Stiles wrangles their carry-ons into place. Derek spots others wearing the jackets for Team USA, but he doesn’t register faces, not at this hour. They find their row and Derek tucks Emily into the seat next to the window and leaves Stiles the aisle. Derek doesn’t like the middle seat, but he’ll take the discomfort in order to know that his daughter is safe.

He’s exhausted as well, barely managing to lift his hand as Isaac and Whittemore walk by on their way to seats three rows behind them.

“You should sleep for now,” he murmurs to Stiles, feels the answering nod. If they can sleep for the first half of the flight, then doze for the rest, they might be able to sleep at a normal hour after arriving.

Stiles sinks down into his seat, head tilting until it falls on Derek’s shoulder. Derek has his hand curled around Emily Joy’s fingers, and she sighs and curls into him as well.

He doesn’t even notice when the plane finally lifts off.

Derek wakes at the sound of his name being repeated, and the snap of fingers in front of his face. He blinks into the dim light of the plane, narrows his gaze until he focuses on Jackson Whittemore crossing his arms and pulling himself upright next to Isaac.

“He’s awake now,” Whittemore says.

“You’re an asshole,” Derek mutters, biting his tongue as his daughter squirms next to him.

“Erica sent me a few pictures,” Isaac says quietly. “It looks like you’ve been working hard.”

Isaac is the one person that Derek doesn’t mind leaking a few pictures to. When Isaac nods at Stiles, Derek shifts enough to touch his elbow to Stiles’s side and sit him upright. Stiles blinks, shakes his head.

“Oh hey, hi, teammates,” Stiles says, voice rough. “Didn’t realize you’d be on this flight.”

“Daehler’s here, too,” Isaac tells him. “Along with two of the women’s skaters, their alternate, one ice dancing pair, and one of our two pair skating teams.” He shrugs. “Apparently more of us were flying off the east coast than west this year.”

Whittemore clears his throat, and Isaac looks over at him. “What?”

“Introduce me,” Whittemore says flatly.

Isaac rolls his eyes. “Jackson, this is Derek Hale. Who you already know, I’m pretty damned sure. If he were still skating, he’d knock your ass off the podium so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you. And you’ve already met Stiles. You sneered something about his rusted skates, if I remember correctly.”

“They aren’t rusted,” Stiles says mildly. “Or old, for that matter. And I’m better than you.” He tilts his head, gestures at Isaac. “Sorry.”

Isaac’s grin is sharp and bright. “We’ll see about that, but I’m up for the competition. And anyone who can knock Matt off the team is a good one in my book. He’s even more of an ass than Jackson.”

“I didn’t mean introduce me to _Hale,_ ” Jackson mutters, and Derek feels his heart skip.

Jackson’s gaze shifts to where Emily Joy is just blinking into the light, her features screwing up into an expression of confusion. “Why did you wake me up?” she whines.

“Because Jackson’s an asshole,” Stiles says. “Go on back to sleep, Em. Your daddy thinks you should sleep all the way to Korea, so you can have more fun when you get there.”

It’s no help; Emily’s awake now. She unbuckles her seat belt and climbs onto Derek’s lap, offers her hand solemnly to Jackson. “I’m Emily Joy Hale. Why are you an asshole?”

“Emily!” Derek snaps, while Stiles falls back into his chair laughing.

“Isaac can be an asshole, too,” Jackson points out.

“I like Isaac,” Emily says with a smile. “He came to my birthday last year. He’s nice to me. And asshole’s not a word for a nice person.”

Derek gets a hand over her mouth, glares at Stiles. “Can we all just stop saying—” He cuts off and mouths the word _asshole_ as if Emily has no idea what he’s saying. “Do I need to get a swear jar for you again?”

There’s a bright flash, and Emily blinks, rubs her eyes. “Ow.”

“Derek Hale, oh my God, I never thought you’d be back.” A girl leans between Isaac and Jackson, her hand shoved in Derek’s face. “I love your skating. I mean, I totally watched you skate when I was little, and you might be just about the first guy I ever crushed on. Kate was the first girl,” she confides.

Derek takes her hand, shakes it quickly and lets go. Emily curls back against his shoulder.

The girl inhales quickly, looks from Jackson to Isaac to Stiles. “Wait. Are you Mieczysław Stilinski? You’re the guy who came out of nowhere. Is he coaching you?” Her voice rises, and Derek can hear people waking up, can see them taking notice. “Oh my God, this is the coolest news ever. Can I get a picture?” She doesn’t wait for permission, just comes around Isaac so she can lean in next to Stiles and snap a selfie that includes herself, Stiles, and Derek with Emily. She starts tapping something on her phone. “Is she your daughter? Oh my God, is that why you disappeared? Who’s her mom? She is just the cutest thing, isn’t she? Does she skate?”

“Daddy?” Emily whispers, her face buried against his shoulder.

“Do you want me to…?” Stiles makes a motion toward the girl’s phone.

Derek shakes his head. It’s too late to put the genie back in the bottle, and he knows that probably half the flight is made up of Olympians, their coaches, and their families. This is news he expected to deal with. He’s just not anywhere near as ready as he thought he was.

“None of that is actually any of your business,” Isaac says, his hands on the girl’s shoulders as he turns her away, gives her a gentle shove toward the front of the plane.

“Snowboard,” Jackson says with a shrug. “And everyone’s going to know you have a kid within the next five minutes. Which is pretty impressive since no one knew before now.”

Derek strokes his hands through Emily’s hair, shifts her when Stiles reaches out to offer comfort as well. Emily looks up, then dives across Derek’s lap to end up on Stiles, burrowing her face into his shoulder. “There might have been a reason for that,” Derek grumbles. “She deserves to just grow up as herself, not with cameras snapping.”

“We’re just going to go sit down and stop calling attention to you.” Isaac looks behind them, jaw going tight. “And we’re going to make Daehler sit down, too, because otherwise he’s going to be an ass to Stiles.” He nudges Stiles on his way by. “This is going to be good. Don’t let the nerves about international competition get to you.”

“Had to say it,” Stiles mutters, skin pale beneath the bright dots of moles scattered across his face.

It’s a seemingly never ending parade of questions after that, first about Emily Joy, but then slowly the attention shifts to Stiles. The unknown who is entering his first international competition with Derek Hale as his coach. Stiles’s knee never stops moving, bouncing up and down as he fields question after question. His skin stays pale, his lips almost bloodless after an hour of near constant attention.

When someone pulls out a pad of paper, he reels backwards, hands Emily to Derek. “I’m just going to go puke,” Stiles mutters as he pushes out of his seat and hurries down the aisle to the front of the plane.

“Is he nervous?” the man asks, showing his press credentials.

Derek just manages to resist rolling his eyes and deadpans, “Airsick. Why don’t you wait until we’re actually in PyeongChang and rested before you try again for your interview. My athlete needs to be at peak performance.”

He smells gardenias, and a chill snakes through him. The reporter steps away, but the scent grows stronger as someone drops into Stiles’s seat, graceful as she leans in close. “Hello, Derek,” she whispers, and the scent is strong enough to strangle him.

“Kate,” he murmurs in return.

Emily lifts her head, blinks at Kate. As they stare at each other in profile, Derek can only catalog the similarities: hair color, nose and chin, the way their hair curls when they wear it down. Then Emily blinks, and all Derek sees are the Hale eyes, and the way her eyebrows rise, just like his, when she looks at Kate.

“I’m Emily. Who’re you?” Emily clings to Derek, doesn’t offer a polite hand.

“I’m Kate Argent, and I’m a skater, like your daddy.” Kate reaches a hand to touch Emily’s hair, and Emily reels back, glaring at her. Kate drops her hand back to her own lap.

“Daddy’s not a skater anymore. He’s a coach, and he’s going to make Stiles get a gold medal.” Emily nods sagely. “I’m going to watch.”

“Oh, I see,” Kate says. Her gaze narrows, sharp and biting. “And where’s your mommy? Did she come with you and your daddy?”

As if Kate has no idea who Emily is. Derek grits his teeth, wanting to push Kate away because this is _not_ how he’d intended for them to meet. In fact, he never wanted them to meet, not since Kate gave her child away. Emily is his.

Emily tilts her head, smiles. “I don’t have a mommy. She didn’t want me, but that’s okay because I have Daddy and he’s the best daddy ever. I don’t need a mommy.”

“You didn’t even—”

Derek gets a hand up, clearly cutting her off, and thankfully Kate stops as soon as he does. “Why would I?” he says mildly. “You can see that she’s fine. Emily and I make a good family together.”

“And we’ve got Laura and Erica and Boyd and now we have Stiles and Scott, too,” Emily chirps. “Can I meet Allison? I saw a picture and she seems really nice. Scott gets all funny when he talks about her.”

“We’ll talk about that after the Olympics.” Derek has no idea what’s going to happen when the Olympics are done, whether he’ll keep coaching Stiles, or if Stiles will want to go back to Deaton. “Why don’t you get in your seat again, and if you’re awake, we can get out some crayons or something else for you to do.”

“Stiles!” Emily calls out. “You have to get up,” she tells Kate. “That’s Stiles’s seat.”

Stiles stands with one hand gripping the edge of the seat in the row ahead of them, fingers digging into the padding. He smiles thinly. “Oh. Hey, hi. You’re Kate Argent. We, uh, we haven’t met. Not exactly. But I know your niece. The archer. She says you’re the black sheep of the family with the whole winter sports thing instead of summer.”

Kate takes her time looking him over, gaze drifting from head to toe and back again, her smile thinly narrowed. “Ah, right. I do remember Allison mentioning that her boyfriend’s best friend was a skater. Something about a YouTube channel, if I recall. What a shock to see you here. I didn’t know they let rank amateurs compete internationally.”

“The whole point of the Olympics is finding the best amateur, isn’t it?” Stiles snaps, the words hardly softened by the polite smile he pastes on. “I’ll have to let Allison know I saw you. I’m sure she’ll be looking for you in PyeongChang; she and Scott are coming in with my dad to cheer me on. Maybe she’ll find some time for you, too.”

Kate hisses, and Derek knows that Allison hasn’t contacted her, hasn’t made plans to see her skate. He keeps his expression bland, but it pleases him to know that someone else sees beyond her pretty princess veneer to the snake beneath.

“You’re in my seat.” Stiles leans forward, breathes in her face and Kate recoils. “Unless you want to share.”

“No. Thank you.” Kate pushes from the seat, lets Stiles drop back into it. She looks across at Emily, and her public smile never reaches her eyes. “It was such a pleasure meeting you, Emily. Hopefully I’ll see you again in PyeongChang. Maybe I can get some ice time for you to skate with me.”

“No thank you,” Emily says quietly. “I just want to skate with my Daddy and Stiles.”

Stiles snorts softly, and Emily crawls across Derek to get into his lap. As Kate walks away, Stiles curls one arm around Emily, helps her get situated on his lap more comfortably. “I take it that’s—”

“Not now,” Derek murmurs. He reaches down, pulls out Emily’s backpack and sifts through it, finding her box of crayons and a coloring book. “Emily, why don’t you come back to your seat and color.”

“Staying here.” Emily reaches for the table, manages to somehow pull it down even though it has to be squishing her and Stiles.

“She’s fine,” Stiles says quietly. “And maybe if she’s busy, people will stop coming over and bugging us. I didn’t expect it to be so—they’re all so nosy.”

“People are,” Derek mutters. “And between you being you, and me being me, and Emily being here at all… they’re curious. Are you okay?”

“Oh hey, yeah. It’s my first international competition, my coach is the new sensation of the day, and I have the best little girl in the world keeping me company.” Stiles hugs Emily, who turns around and gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek before she returns to solemnly laying out her art supplies. Stiles huffs a small laugh. “I’ll be fine, Derek. I’m just going to pretend it’s all for YouTube. The live audience? Not even there. Besides. I’m pretty sure there is nothing left in my stomach at this point, so there won’t be another round of sick.”

“Stiles, you need to help me color.” Emily grabs his right hand, tucks a green crayon into it. “You color the leaves. I’ll color the flower.”

“Looks like I’m busy,” Stiles murmurs as he leans forward, his head bent close to Emily’s.

His left hand lies on the armrest between them, and Derek looks at it for a long time before he lowers his own hand on top. Stiles turns his hand, twists his fingers in Derek’s and entwines them together. The clutch of his hand is the only sign of his nerves remaining, and Derek gently strokes his thumb along Stiles’s hand, offering comfort as best he can.

It’s going to be a bumpy ride in PyeongChang, and there’s not much Derek can do except try to help Stiles ride it out.

#

The first day in PyeongChang is chaotic. The plane touches down just after dawn, and despite leaving just past midnight on Monday, they’ve arrived on Tuesday morning. Emily had finally fallen back asleep, waking up as Derek and Stiles gather together their bags. It takes time to get through customs, and Emily’s cranky the entire time, clinging to Derek as he holds her, face pressed against his shoulder.

Too many people are interested in their small crew, and Derek glares until they back off.

“I’m exhausted,” Stiles admits, and Derek is fairly certain that his plan to acclimate them to Korean time has failed.

“Let’s just get settled and take a short nap, then if we can manage to stay up the rest of the day, you can sleep tonight and be fresh for the ice tomorrow.” Derek keeps his voice firm, despite Emily’s whine and the rub of her face against his skin.

They get on the shuttle that takes them—along with half their flight—to Olympic Village. It’s another hour of standing in line to get their room assignments, then helpers separate them, taking Stiles and his gear in one direction, while Derek and Emily make their way to their room.

Derek drops his things just inside the door and falls onto the bed. He’s asleep as soon as Emily curls up next to him, tucked in his arms.

His phone wakes him several hours later, and he texts Stiles to make sure he’s awake as well. After a shower and a quick meal, Derek and Emily meet up with Isaac and Stiles, and they walk around the Village, getting to know where everything is, and learning how to catch the proper shuttles to the different competition locations. Isaac has tickets to watch moguls and every snowboard event that doesn’t conflict with skating. Stiles claims he’s just here to skate, and doesn’t plan to see anything else.

Derek resolves to make sure to get him access to events that happen after the skating is done. You can’t come to the Olympics and not see others compete.

They push through the day despite exhaustion, but after dinner Isaac excuses himself and heads back to the room he’s sharing with Stiles. Derek lifts Emily, who fell asleep mid-dessert, and watches as Stiles wavers, taking a step toward where Isaac has gone, then pausing. Stiles looks at Derek, licks his lips.

“Overwhelmed?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods rapidly.

“Before college, I’d never left Beacon Hills,” Stiles admits. “And before I started skating, I’d never traveled anywhere else in the States. And now I’m standing in Korea, and my head is confused because it doesn’t know what time it is, and I just had an amazing meal, and in a few days we have the opening ceremony and I just… it’s almost too much.”

“International competition is like that.” Derek nods at the small backpack lying on the chair. “Can you grab that and carry it back to my room for me, while I carry Emily?” It’s a subtle way of saying _you can stay and talk_ without actually saying the words.

When they make it back to the room, Derek tucks Emily into the bed he already slept in once, and sits down on the other. Stiles puts the backpack down on the one chair in the room, then looks around uncertainly before he approaches and sits on the edge of the bed, not far from Derek. “I’m nervous,” Stiles admits. “You’re right, it’s a lot. And I can see why people tank in their first international competition. But I want you to know that I’m not going to do that.”

“They’re going to want to interview you,” Derek reminds him. “We’ve got a press slot tomorrow before lunch, after your morning practice.”

“I’ll be fine.” Stiles waves it off. “I can talk about myself easily. It’s when they start asking about you that things are going to get complicated.” He leans back on his hands, draws his feet up so his knees are bent, feet pressed against the comforter. “I still don’t know why you decided you wanted to coach me. You disappeared, and you came back for this.” He motions at his chest.

“I came to Nationals to see you skate,” Derek says quietly. “I’ve been out of skating for a long time because of Emily, but I’ve kept up with it. I’m friends with Isaac—good friends, he’s met Emily before. But I couldn’t get out there and keep going, not when I had to worry about raising her. I want to be there for her, and I could afford to just stop, so I did.”

“Kate’s her mother?” Stiles’s voice is soft, slow, like he’s wary of asking the question.

Derek nods, biting his lip. “Emily doesn’t know. That was the agreement—Kate would carry her, and I’d take her as soon as she was born, and Kate didn’t have to have anything to do with her. And she doesn’t. They met for the first time on that plane; I haven’t even sent her pictures. It’s all going to come out now, I’m sure, but I’m not talking about it until I have to. Kate doesn’t want anyone to know she had a kid. She sure as hell didn’t want one in the first place.”

“So you quit skating to be a dad. Huh.” Stiles shakes his head. “It’s not what I expected. I figured maybe you’d injured yourself, or after you broke up with Kate that you’d decided to become a hermit or something.” He glances sideways at Derek. “Not that anyone knew for sure you’d broken up. You both just disappeared, then you both came back for Nationals in 2014, but when Kate went to Sochi, you didn’t. You sent an alternate, and you disappeared again.”

Derek doesn’t want to rehash how it ended. He’d been with Kate for two years before she got pregnant, and it was a shock to realize that while she wanted his fame, and his family’s money, she had no desire to actually make a new family with him.

Derek never wanted the fame or money, but the family—that was important to him. He took Emily and left Kate, and when he realized he couldn’t have both his skating and Emily, he chose Emily.

“I bought the house back in 2011,” Derek says slowly. “It had a rink, and I needed a private place to practice. Kate never wanted to be there—it was too out of the way for her. She liked training in rinks where there would be publicity. But I loved that house, and after Emily was born, it was the perfect place for her to grow up.”

“You bought that house. You must be rich, dude.” Stiles shakes his head. “Me and my dad, we scrape for everything. He practically went broke to get me to college and for me to play hockey through middle school and high school. When I switched to figure skating, he thought I was nuts, but he was willing to shell out what he had to in order to pay Alan to coach me. And I’m pretty sure Alan cut us a good deal.”

“You’re good at finding reclusive coaches,” Derek says dryly. “Why did Alan drag you off that hockey bench?”

“He saw me warming up and I was just screwing around with footwork,” Stiles admits. “I’m not a great shooter, but I have fantastic footwork. It’s easy for me, and Alan said he saw a spark of something and he wanted to see more. So he got me ice time in the morning, before the hockey team practiced. And we worked together, and every time I got down on myself, we’d look at video, and he’d say _see that right there, that’s the spark_ and I’d try again. I’d always loved watching figure skating when I was a kid, so I knew what I wanted to do.”

Stiles tilts his head, a flush staining his cheeks brightly. “I was ten when you went to Turin. I remember you there. You were skinnier then, your cheeks were more round. You didn’t have all that scruff, but you were confident. You’d competed internationally, but no one really knew who you were yet, and then you took silver. And God, your exhibition skate was amazing. My mom was still alive then, and she kept telling me how good you were.”

Stiles looks down at his phone, fiddles with it before he opens an app, tilts it so Derek can see his own routine in fuzzy video displayed. “Your Vancouver routine—the Worlds program from 2010—was the first one I learned,” he admits. “Without the jumps. That was the footwork I was playing with, and it’s part of how I got interested in using footwork for warmups. I was fourteen when you competed and you just… you were sex on ice. I probably had a crush, but hey, who didn’t? You were the skater everyone was talking about. And a year later, you started dating Kate, so well. Dreams crushed.” Stiles grins, shrugs and ducks his head. “So I guess you could say you were my inspiration. It was a shock when I came out and saw you standing there. When you offered to be my coach.”

Derek can imagine what Alan Deaton saw when he watched Stiles. He’s seen it, in those moments where Stiles gets lost inside his own mind and skates with an instinct rather than talent. “Deaton was right to take you out of hockey,” he says quietly. “You’re a figure skater. In your heart, in your soul, that’s what you’re meant to be. You’re still a kid, you can keep doing this for years yet. Two more Olympics, easy.”

“Why don’t you come back?” Stiles asks, and Derek shakes his head.

“Emily.” He glances at where she sleeps curled on the other bed. “If I’m coaching, I can take time to be with her, still. I can be her father, which is more important. She can come with me to competitions, but I can focus on both her and you, without losing her. If I’m competing, I can’t focus on anything but the ice. That’s not fair to her.”

“You’re a good dad.” Stiles lets his elbows slide out until he falls back on the bed with a soft thump. A moment later he pulls his legs up, curls on his side, fingers brushing against Derek’s hips. “Tell me they don’t do bed checks here, because I am way too exhausted to walk back to my own room.”

Derek looks between the bed—his bed, where Stiles is now half-asleep—and Emily’s bed. He touches Stiles’s shoulder, squeezes lightly. “Go ahead and sleep. I’ll stay with Emily.”

For a moment Stiles’s fingers twist against Derek’s hip, grasping at the fabric of his jeans, then Stiles’s hand goes lax. There’s a low exhalation, and Stiles eases into sleep.

Derek doesn’t bother to shed his jeans, just lies down next to Emily. When she curls in close, he drops an arm around her to hold on, and follows her into dreams.

#

Derek wakes before dawn, Emily still asleep in the bed next to him. The other bed is empty, the comforter pulled neatly up; Derek assumes that Stiles has gone back to his room to shower. They have the first slot on the ice in just under an hour, and Derek has plenty to do before he can meet him there.

He checks his texts, relieved that Laura is already on the ground in PyeongChang. Clearing customs took longer than she expected, but she expects to arrive at Derek’s room in twenty minutes. He texts her back so she knows he’s awake, then hurries to get through the shower and dressed before Emily wakes up. Emily’s not easy to wake when the time comes, and is still struggling to keep her eyes open when Laura arrives. Together they wrangle her into clean clothes, and Laura promises to take her out for breakfast to distract her from the fact that Derek is going to go see Stiles without her.

By the time Emily lets him go, it’s past when he needed to leave to meet Stiles on time. Derek kisses Emily’s forehead quickly, then another smack on her cheek, before he leaves her with Laura and jogs to catch the shuttle to the rink.

He walks in five minutes late and hears the distinct sound of blades cutting across the ice in quick steps, then the swish and sudden silence of a jump.

He counts automatically, knowing the exact timing of Stiles’s rotations in the air: one, two, three… there’s another moment of silence, then a scrape and a thud. Derek hurries to the edge of the rink to see Stiles sliding on his ass across the ice before he pushes himself to his feet and skates a lap around the rink.

On the other side, Isaac lifts one hand in greeting before he goes back to his conversation with his coach. They’re lucky it’s Isaac; Stiles could be sharing ice time with Whittemore. Or Daehler. Matt Daehler might not be competing, but he still gets his practice time, just in case something happens and he has to step in.

If Stiles is doing what Derek thinks he’s doing, he might be opening that door for Daehler.

Stiles finishes the lap, twists, shifting from edge to edge on his blade as he goes through his footwork. It’s all perfectly timed and Derek inhales as Stiles shifts his weight, prepares for the jump. When he takes to the air, Derek counts the rotations again—one, two, three, four—Stiles comes down on a single blade, but he’s not quite balanced and his free foot touches down. Arms windmill, and Stiles somehow holds on to stay upright as he skates on.

He’s skating the last half of his routine, and by the looks of it, he’s been working on it for a long time already. More than the five minutes that Derek is late arriving. Stiles is exhausted, and yet, he takes another lap around the rink without breaking, readies himself for another attempt at the quad.

“Stiles!” Derek barks out, the sharp syllable carrying easily over the ice.

Stiles stumbles out of his footwork, twists around and ends up skating backwards as he blinks at Derek. He stops, turns just in time before he bumps into Isaac, then pushes off to skate over to meet Derek. “You’re late.”

“You were early.” Derek doesn’t mention that Stiles slipped out of the room before he was awake; if someone overheard it would be too easy to misconstrue. He simply raises one eyebrow, and he knows Stiles understands by the flush that spreads outward from the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t fall back asleep, and I’m just going to blame the unfamiliar bed and pillow,” Stiles mutters. “I figured I could use a little extra work and well, I had something specific I needed to practice.”

“Adding a quad to the second half of your program.”

Stiles’s jaw goes tight, tilts up stubbornly. “Two. Plus upgrading a triple/double combination to two triples.”

“Are you kidding me?” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, covers his face with his hand. “Stiles, we’re here for you to win gold, not land on your ass like some green idiot who has no idea how to handle himself in international competition.”

“It is my first,” Stiles says dryly. “I don’t see you offering other ideas, and have you seen the things these guys are throwing around? I watched a video of Nikiforov’s long program from Worlds. He has five quads, three of them in the last half. He nails them like he’s flying, like he could go for a fifth rotation just by thinking about it. I think the guy’s been sprinkled with fairy dust.”

“You aren’t Nikiforov,” Derek says firmly. Quietly. He needs to get this across to Stiles, and he’s not sure he’s the right coach to do this. He can groom him on the ice, but maybe this isn’t his forte. Maybe he’s the wrong choice. Maybe he’s made a mistake.

Derek rubs at his eyes, tries to pick his words. “Stiles. You’re good. You’re really good, and you can beat Nikiforov. But you can’t beat him by trying to _be_ him. You need to be yourself. Play to your strengths. You have fantastic footwork. You can load the quads in the front, that’s fine, and do the complicated combinations in the second half. Instead of one jump for points, do two. That’s your skill, that you are better at being able to go from jump to jump, move to move, than anyone else I’ve seen. You’re a newborn foal, but you make it work for you. It’s fluid. Like dancing.”

Stiles snorts softly. “You keep coming back to the dancing.”

“It’s why I know you can win,” Derek tells him. “But you can’t win if you’re sliding across the ice on your ass. Or if you overwork yourself and pull something. No torn muscles, no sprains. You can’t risk it, not now.”

“You’re not telling me to play it safe, are you?” Stiles tilts his head, runs his finger along the line of Derek’s leather jacket. “You. The coach who refuses to wear his Team USA jacket. Are you telling me to play it safe in competition this week?”

Derek captures Stiles’s hand, holds it tight, his thumb pressed against the palm. “I’m telling you that you’re not ready to throw an extra quad in the second half of your long program. And that you shouldn’t come in earlier than your scheduled time; you don’t want to overwork.”

“And I’m telling you that I’m winning gold no matter what.” Stiles drops his voice, leans in close as he twists his free hand in Derek’s collar. He ends up forehead to forehead, warm breath washing over Derek’s skin. “No matter what. I’m going to be on top of that podium.”

Derek stands perfectly still, exhales once in a soft puff; Stiles pulls back, licks his lips as if he can taste Derek’s breath upon his skin. “You’re winning gold,” Derek says quietly. “That’s what we’re here to do. But I know how international competition works, and you don’t. You have to trust me. And you don’t have that quad yet. You’re not ready.”

“I’ll have it,” Stiles tells him. “I have to.”

Derek presses his lips together, wants to yell to tell him not to be so damned stubborn.

But he can’t. Not when he remembers sneaking into the rink the night before his first Worlds competition. Not when he remembers trying again and again to nail a sequence that eluded him, that he wasn’t quite ready to debut.

He hit it perfectly in competition, too.

Derek huffs. “You’ve got time before the long program. Today should be about the short program. How long have you been here already?”

“About half an hour,” Stiles admits. “Not all that long. Isaac was already here when I got here, actually.”

“Then you’re already warmed up.” Derek drops onto a bench, starts pulling his shoes off. “Do slow laps, a little footwork, while I’m getting my skates on, then we’re going to go through your short program in slow motion. Together.”

When Derek joins Stiles on the ice, he can feel Isaac’s gaze on them. He glances over; Isaac’s coach is watching them, arms crossed and both eyebrows lifted. Isaac makes a hand motion to show that he’s primarily using one portion of the ice, probably just doing a light warm-up to stay loose.

Stiles looks like he’s ready to work hard, and it’s Derek’s job to slow him down.

Derek skates into place behind Stiles, fits in close, one hand on Stiles’s belly to keep himself in position as Stiles moves. Derek leans forward, mouth close to Stiles’s ear. “No jumps,” he murmurs. “You’ve done enough of that today. Take me through your short program with you. Slow. Easy. But make me feel it. Dance with me.”

Stiles reaches for Derek’s hand, raises it over his head with his own as he looks up, falling into his opening position easily. Derek goes with him, feels the hard line of Stiles’s body along his own. His eyes close for just a moment, visualizing the opening moves.

“I’m going to win,” Stiles whispers, before they begin to skate.

Derek has no doubt that it’s true.

#

“Your boy is good.” Orlov leans on the wall next to Derek, gestures at the ice where the final four to compete are warming up. Derek isn’t sure how Stiles was lucky enough to score this position, but he’ll take it. It puts him on the ice with Whittemore, Nikiforov, and Addams out of Canada.

Orlov’s gaze follows Whittemore around the ice, nodding his approval when he executes a flawless quadruple flip. “Your boy is good,” Orlov repeats. “Mine are better. Yours pushes too hard. On the ice, with Isaac, he wants too much. He will burn out before he can win.”

“Stiles has spirit,” Derek says quietly. He can’t look away, worried that Stiles has already forgotten every hint of advice Derek gave. Don’t do too much in the warmup. Don’t give away your program. Do enough to be ready, but not so much that you’re tired. Derek whispers the words inside his own mind, willing Stiles to hear him.

Stiles skates on, fiddling with footwork around the edge of the ice, while Whittemore does another jump. At one side, Nikiforov stands instead of skates, conferring with someone that Derek can’t make out.

“He has spark, yes,” Orlov says. “I spoke to Deaton, offered to take him on after Nationals. Deaton told me that you had already stepped in.” Orlov’s gaze narrows. “It has been a long time since you were on the ice, Derek. And you have never coached.”

“Four years,” Derek corrects him. “Which isn’t all that long. And I’ve been on the ice, just not in public view. I have a rink, remember?”

“I remember. You thought that working on your own would be enough.” Orlov tsks under his breath.

“I won Nationals.”

“You did not to go to Sochi.”

Derek turns away from the ice, gives Orlov his full attention. “And you know why I didn’t go to Sochi.”

It’s as if his words summon her. Emily Joy barrels into Derek, wrapping her arms around his knees and begging him to pick her up. He gathers her up, nuzzling against her cheek as she giggles. Laura joins them, touches Derek’s shoulder.

“She didn’t want to sit with me up high,” Laura says.

“I want to see Stiles win,” Emily says firmly. “I’m going to coach him, too. He needs us.”

Orlov clears his throat.

Laura makes an irritated noise. “And I’m going to go sit in my assigned seat. Better company.”

She stalks off, and Orlov shakes his head. Derek isn’t going to bother to smooth things over between them; it’s not worth it.

“Stiles is up first,” Derek murmurs, pointing to where Stiles is waiting at the gate on the far side of the rink. “As soon as he’s done, we’ll go meet him in the kiss and cry?”

“Is he going to cry?” Emily asks, worried. “Should I kiss him and hug him? Will it help?”

Derek presses a kiss to her cheek, squeezes her. “I’m sure it will.”

Words come over the loudspeaker, and Derek doesn’t understand a bit of it other than Mieczysław Stilinski. Stiles pushes through the gate as the announcement is repeated in multiple languages, his hand raised in greeting to the audience and judges. He finds his position, one hand gracefully in the air, the other across his heart, as the final introduction fades.

The first note sounds, and Emily’s fingers clutch at Derek’s hair. His heart is racing, fingers tapping against Emily’s hip where he holds her up. He counts with Stiles, does the footwork in his mind. He holds his breath through the first combination—a quad into a triple—exhaling with a shudder when Stiles skates it cleanly, with perfect finesse.

Derek is able to breathe through the middle of the program, while Stiles works his way through footwork and his spins, resting for the finale. The two minute and fifty second routine seems to be slipping away so quickly, and as Stiles moves into the footwork for the final combination, Derek feels as if he might never breathe again.

Stiles twists and readies himself for his final combination, gliding onto the proper edge of the blade before he takes off. He counts the rotations, feels his heart skip as Stiles pushes for that extra rotation before he comes down solidly on one foot, twists, and launches into a triple.

Emily slides out of his grasp, Derek’s hands and body loose as he leans forward heavily against the wall, head bowed. He doesn’t see the end, just hears the last of the music fade away and the shouts of the crowd in reaction.

“It was not a pretty landing, but he did it,” Orlov murmurs. “What was that combination supposed to be?”

“Triple into a double,” Derek manages to say, words rough in his throat. “Fuck.”

Orlov pats his back. “Mine may be an asshole—both of them, even Isaac, yes—but they do not try to give me heart attack. Talk to him. Remind him it is best not to try to kill coach.” Orlov nudges, and Derek realizes that Stiles is already leaving the ice, heading for the bench.

“Come on, let’s go meet Stiles.” Derek scoops up Emily, pushes his way through the crowd so that he can get to the kiss & cry just as Stiles arrives.

Emily wriggles out of Derek’s arms, crawling into Stiles’s lap as soon as he sits. Stiles is holding a teddy bear that wears a t-shirt saying _we love you_ and a name that Derek suspects is supposed to be Mieczysław. As Stiles sits there, flowers are handed to him, and he looks at them with some bemusement, handing them across to Derek.

“They like you,” Derek murmurs. He can feel the rise and fall of Stiles’s chest with every labored breath.

“God knows why,” Stiles mutters in return. “I’m as much of an ass as Jackson Whittemore, and nowhere near as pretty.” He hunches forward, kept from falling over completely by Emily in his arms.

She kisses his cheek quickly. “You’re very pretty.” She touches one of the moles spattering his face. “These are beauty marks and you have so many that you must be the most beautiful person ever.”

Stiles’s mouth opens slightly, hangs there as he looks at her. His gaze flicks to Derek, and a flush slowly spreads across his skin. “Um. Thanks.”

Derek feels the need to follow that up with some validation from an adult. His voice is low, still rough from stress. “She’s not wrong. You are equally as attractive as Jackson or Isaac, just in a different way. Don’t sell yourself short, Stiles.”

Stiles huffs a small laugh. “Glad to know you see me that way, big guy.”

The loudspeaker comes on, and Derek offers a hand to Stiles. He threads their fingers together, covers their clasped hands with his other hand while the scores are read.

They flash on the board, then Stiles’s name appears at the top of the list of skaters.

“Holy shit.” Stiles turns to face Derek, puts his hands over Emily’s ears and says it again. “Holy fucking shit. Am I in first right now?”

Emily wrestles his hands from her ears, jabs a finger at his chest. “Of course you are. You’re going to win.”

Stiles laughs, throws his hands up and screams, “Yes!”

They are hustled from the kiss & cry while in the background, Jackson takes the ice. He still has to skate, then Addams, and Nikiforov. Stiles carries Emily, as she clings to him, arms around his neck. Derek drops an arm across Stiles’s shoulders, guiding him into the back where a knot of reporters lies in wait.

Stiles hesitates, and Emily buries her face against his shoulder. “Derek….”

“This is part of international competition.” Derek slides his hand from Stiles’s shoulders to the small of his back, nudges him forward. “You’ll be fine.”

“Mieczysław!”

Stiles stops, stares at the reporter. “Stiles. Please. Save my full name for the competition or if I’ve done something wrong.”

They all laugh politely, and Derek guides Stiles off to one side where he can answer questions without blocking people from passing. Derek tries to take Emily, but she clings even more tightly to Stiles, and Stiles murmurs that it’s fine.

“Stiles,” the reporter says, and Stiles nods for him to continue. “This is your first international competition. How do you feel?”

“Ready,” Stiles says with a grin. If Derek only looks at his face, it seems like the truth, but he can see the white knuckles as Stiles holds Emily up, the taut lines of his forearms. “I’m here to kick ass. Wait. I’m not supposed to say that on TV, am I?”

“They’ll edit,” Derek says dryly. “Where you’re concerned, they’ll edit a lot.” In the distance he can see Scott and someone that he assumes is Stiles’s father. Scott’s waving wildly, and Derek lifts his hand to indicate that they’ll be just a moment.

“You seem very relaxed for this to be your first time competing on the international stage,” another reporter observes. Her gaze rakes over them both, lingers on Emily. “Is this your good luck charm?”

Emily’s head snaps up and she pins the reporter with a dark glare. “I’m a she not a this,” she grumbles. “And I’m tired and you should stop making flashes.” Another flash goes off as a picture is taken, and she turns away, pressing her face to Stiles’s shoulder again.

“Who is this?” the reporter persists.

“This is—” Stiles stumbles to a stop, glances at Derek. “Not a conversation we’re going to have,” Stiles says slowly. “You can ask me about my skating.”

And they do. Exhaustively. Derek waits while they gather the story of Stiles’s life prior to the Olympics. How he skated when he was younger for hockey, and how Alan Deaton pulled him off the bench to try his hand at figure skating. He feels the weight of regard from the reporters at that, but stays silent.

“And now?” It’s the woman from before, whose gaze still flicks from Stiles to Emily to Derek. “You are here with Derek Hale as your coach, rather than Alan Deaton. It seems you have gone from one recluse to another.”

“That’s apparently my special skill, luring skaters out of retirement,” Stiles deadpans. His hand shakes where it rests against Emily’s hip.

Derek reaches for Emily again, and she goes this time, wrapping her arms around his shoulder tightly. Stiles takes a step back, crosses his arms, fingers tapping against his own skin.

“Derek.” The reporter’s found her opening, shifts her attention. “So tell us. What is so special about Mieczysław Stilinski that he managed to pull you out of retirement and into coaching.”

“Stiles,” Stiles mutters.

“He’s going to win gold,” Emily whispers, turning her head just enough to be heard. “He’s really really good, and my daddy is helping him win gold.”

There’s a soft scratch of pens on paper, and Derek knows his daughter will be quoted. And that she will become a sound bite on broadcasts around the world.

“I’ve been told that Alan Deaton said he saw a spark of something in Stiles,” Derek says slowly, trying to remember everything he learned when skating in international competitions himself. “I saw that spark, and I knew that it wasn’t fully lit yet. That he could be more than just a spark. I knew Stiles could set the skating world on fire, and that’s what we’re here to do.”

They’re good words, and they’ll be repeated. Derek can only hope that his firm statement can somehow overshadow the earnestly whispered words of a five year old.

Stiles shifts from foot to foot, lowers his hands to tap fingers against his thigh.

“Derek!” Laura’s voice sings out, and then she’s there, taking Emily and wedging her way next to Stiles, between him and the reporters. “Stiles has people waiting for him, and Emily looks like she needs a nap. Let’s get moving here because I think Stiles should have a chance to see his father before the final standings for today are announced.” She leans in, murmurs, “Whittemore skated clean, and still ended up behind Stiles. He’s pissed. Addams looks like shit on the ice, and Nikiforov will go soon. You need to get back out there.”

With Emily safe in Laura’s arms, Derek is free to press in close to Stiles, get a hand on his lower back and steer him away from the reporters. He can hear the cameras going off, sees the bright flashes, but he doesn’t care.

Stiles’s breath shudders. “I don’t like that part.”

“No one does, but you have to put up with it.” Derek manages to get him free, then stands there, hand hanging in the air as Stiles darts forward and wraps his arms around his father. Stiles high-fives Scott without breaking the hug, and Derek wavers, feeling like an intruder.

Laura touches his shoulder again. “Get your skater. I know he wants to stay here, but you need to be out there.”

Introductions are rushed, and Derek misses the elder Stilinski’s name entirely, only processing that he’s a Sheriff and that Stiles is thrilled that he was able to make it here. Scott promises to see him later, and Derek is able to get Stiles back in time to see Nikiforov’s scores go up.

It’s only the end of the first day of competition, and Stiles is in second place, trailing after Nikiforov. He’s ahead of Whittemore by a tiny margin, and Isaac is further back in the pack, currently seventh.

“You did well,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles turns to look at him. They’re too close together, almost nose to nose, and Derek inhales roughly. Stiles blinks, licks his lips, then pulls back quickly.

Stiles ducks his head. “Well, yeah, like I said, I’m going to win. Nikiforov better like silver, and I’m betting Jackson looks really good in bronze.”

“Right now, you need to rest. Spend some time with your father and Scott, and get to bed early. I’ll see you on the ice for your practice slot tomorrow. On time.” It’s a quiet reminder that Stiles shouldn’t show up early again; he needs to keep himself at full strength.

Derek leaves Stiles with Scott and his father, amidst assurances that they’ll take care of him and make sure he rests. As they usher him away, Derek’s left standing alone, and feeling oddly adrift. Stiles has been his focus for the last two weeks, and being suddenly without him hadn’t been in Derek’s plans. He’s not sure what to do next.

#

Derek takes advantage of the chance to spend time with Laura and Emily. They duck away from enquiring eyes and head to the short track rink. Laura springs a surprise on Derek when Erica and Boyd meet them there, and it feels good to have his family surrounding him. Comfortable. Emily loves the small rink and speed skating, clapping fascinatedly as she watches, and cheering every time she figures out a name to cheer for.

“They go so _fast_ ,” she chortles, and when Erica offers to try to get her closer to the athletes, Emily accepts rapidly.

Derek bites his lip, watching them walk away with Boyd.

“She’s fine,” Laura tells him. “Besides. Aren’t you going to leave her with us so you can go check on Stiles tonight?”

Derek can’t look her in the eye. “I’d considered it,” he admits, and Laura snorts.

“Derek. I have eyes. Just call him and figure out a way to meet up with them for dinner. Maybe you should meet his father, since you’re training Stiles and he’s living in your house.”

Derek fishes his phone out, looks at it for a long moment. Laura knocks into him, shoulder to shoulder.

“Do it,” she whispers, so Derek does.

“Derek.”

It’s not Stiles on the other end.

“Scott?”

“Yeah. Stiles is napping.” There’s a shuffling sound, then a door closing. “I don’t want to wake him up. He’s pretty worn out from the competition today. He wasn’t supposed to practice or anything tonight, was he?”

Derek looks down at the phone, uncomfortable. He inches away from the crowd, makes his way outside as he clears his throat to sound like there’s a reason he’s not talking. “No, we have ice time tomorrow morning. Early,” Derek says. “He’s supposed to rest tonight. I just—I figured you would all be heading out to dinner, and I wanted to know if you wanted to join me. And Emily, maybe.”

Scott’s silent.

Derek’s heart clenches. “I take it that’s a no?”

“Stiles is tired,” Scott says softly. “Everything was pretty intense during the competition, then those reporters afterward.” He hesitates, adds, “You know what it’s like, right?”

“The stress? Yes.” Derek remembers it vividly. Not being able to forget about the competition for even a moment. Friendships off the ice and brutal competition on. And Stiles hasn’t had a chance to form those relationships, to make those connections. He’s separated from the others who are going through the same things.

“And the press.” Scott’s tone is carefully neutral, and Derek knows exactly what he means.

That morning.

Emily. Derek.

Derek coughs, remembers quietly avoiding questions about Kate for years. He knows how brutal those reporters are, how tenacious when they smell a story. “Stiles shouldn’t be alone right now,” Derek mutters. “There are other skaters here. People who are going through the same thing, who can help him acclimate.”

“I don’t think anyone here is going through what Stiles is going through,” Scott says softly. “But sure, if you know anyone to send our way, I can see if I can get them through the door.” He pauses, adds, “He won’t miss practice tomorrow. He’s still determined to get gold.”

“I didn’t think he’d change his mind.” Derek holds up a hand, waves off Laura when she approaches. “Look, I’ll give Isaac his number. Isaac’s a pretentious ass sometimes, but he’s a friend, and he knows most of the skaters. There will be something tonight, low-key and quiet. No one wants to let loose yet. But he can’t just stay in his room and worry, either. That’s a good way to freak out on the international rotation.”

“I’ll let him know.” There’s a click in the background, then Scott covers the phone, his voice momentarily muffled as he talks to someone in the background. “Look, I’ve got to go. And you know, some of this—the press—is you, too. They’re all so curious about you that they keep forgetting about him. The reporters are like… they all want to know about you. Why you disappeared. Why you came back. And I don’t think he minds Emily—okay, he fucking adores Emily. But, if she’s the story the reporters really want, then it’s going to be really awkward for him. Especially for him, since she likes him so much. She clings to him and she doesn’t belong to him. You know what I mean?”

Derek does know. He understands completely. “I’ll do what I can, but it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better.”

“Thanks, man. And this is Stiles. Give him five more minutes and he’ll stick his foot in his mouth all on his own, I’m sure.” Scott covers the phone again, shouts something muffled. “I’ve really got to go now.”

Derek has his phone in his pocket by the time Laura reaches him. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, hunches his shoulders and wishes he’d switched out the Team USA jacket he wore for competition earlier for the comfort of his leather jacket. “We need to talk,” he says.

Her brows knit together in confusion. “About?”

“Kate.” He drops the name like a bomb, and Laura’s eyebrows go wide. “It’s time to make a statement. Clear the air.”

“She’s not going to like it.”

“She doesn’t have to. It’ll give her more publicity than she’s going to get for her skating right now,” Derek says dryly. “We need to put together a statement. Something that can go public, but doesn’t break the agreement.”

Laura ushers Derek off to one side, away from possibly prying ears. “You promised that if she gave you Emily—”

“I promised that I’d check with her before Emily’s parentage became public,” Derek responds quietly. “And I promised that no one would ever know why she agreed to carry her to term.” Kate never wanted Derek, and she never wanted Emily. In order to get Kate to agree to take nine months out of her life to carry Emily, Derek wrote a check for more than Kate could ever hope to earn with endorsements. In exchange, he stays absolutely silent about the details of their agreement. The money was all Kate had ever wanted from Derek anyway.

Derek regrets nothing; Emily Joy is the best part of his life.

Although she might not be the only best part of his life, anymore, and that’s not a thought that bears poking at right now.

Laura rests one hand on his knee, squeezes gently. “I’ll draft something, talk to Kate’s people. We’ll have it out before morning.”

“Thanks.”

Laura gathers him in, rests Derek’s head on her shoulder while she rubs his back. “Hey. What are big sisters for?”

He hears Emily before he sees her, sits up and opens his arms just in time to scoop her up. When she plants a wet kiss on his cheek, he responds in kind, then tickles her until she laughs.

“It’s going to be all right,” Laura tells him, and Derek actually has hope that she’s right.

#

The worst part of putting out the press release is having to explain it to Emily Joy.

As much as Derek would like to leave her in the dark while they’re in PyeongChang, Kate insists that Derek and Emily be there when she skates her short program. Which means reporters, and which also means that in the morning, Derek has to sit down with Emily and explain.

It’s not a good morning to begin with. Emily is still asleep when Derek leaves for Stiles’s morning practice. Laura settles in with a book, promises to dress and feed her when she wakes, but by the time Derek returns, Emily is just barely stirring.

“Did Kate come through with the tickets?” Derek drops his gear in one corner of the room. “Stiles is bringing Scott and his father over, and he said Allison’s here as of late last night. We’ll all go together.”

“Nine spectator tickets in the family section,” Laura says dryly. “Kate was more than happy to hand them over. She’s going to milk this, you know.”

“I have no idea how.” Derek shakes his head, sits on Emily’s bed with one hand on her shoulder. She wiggles, burrows under the blankets, and he tugs them down so that she can’t hide. “Not now, Emily. Time to wake up before everyone else gets here.”

“Laura’s here and I’m in my pajamas,” Emily mutters. “I live with them. I wear ‘jamas with them all the time.”

“We’re going out, so you need to have breakfast and wear clothes.” When Laura coughs, Derek glances at her, and he sees the tray on top of the bureau with milk and cereal—Americanized food for an American child. “Laura already got you breakfast, but you need to get dressed first. And I need to tell you a story.”

Emily wrinkles her nose, rubs at her eyes while she sits up. “What kind of story? Can it be a story about magic? Or bunnies. I really like bunnies.”

Derek wishes it were a story about bunnies. Or dragons, or unicorns, or princesses. But he doesn’t dare try to couch this in fairy-tale terms, not when they’ll be seeing Kate—and the press—that day. “It’s actually a story about mommies,” he says quietly.

Emily is reaching for the tray table that Laura is setting across her lap, and she stops dead, brow furrowing. “Mommies? Like your mommy?”

“Like your mommy.”

Emily sets down the spoon, looks at Derek with wide eyes. “My mommy?”

Laura clears her throat, and Derek taps the tray. “Eat your cereal first, and get dressed. Then I can tell you the story.”

Emily takes a large spoonful of cereal and shoves it in her mouth. “Is my mommy a princess?” she asks while chewing. “Maybe she went back to her kingdom because princesses have to tell everyone what to do.”

That is a disturbingly accurate description of Kate, if the princess is spoiled and feels the need to be in charge and order people around. Derek bites his tongue rather than address it. “Chew first, talk after,” he reminds her gently, and Emily rushes to get another bite in.

Laura whisks away the tray as soon as Emily is done, and Derek gets her dressed. They’re just getting her shoes on when a knock on the door heralds the arrival of Erica and Boyd, and Stiles, Scott, and the Sheriff a moment later. A dark-haired girl is with them; Derek assumes she’s Allison, but no one offers an introduction.

“Stiles!” Emily tackles him, wraps her arms around his legs and squeezes until he picks her up to hug her. “Daddy’s going to tell me a story about my mommy.”

Stiles’s gaze flicks to Derek. “Do you want us to come back later? How soon until we have to go over to the rink?”

“Soon, and no, you might as well stay.”

Emily points at the bed, drags Stiles over with her and waits for him to sit down next to her. “Okay, Daddy. We’re ready.”

“Once upon a time there was a boy who loved skating.” Derek isn’t sure how to tell this story, how to make sure she understands without hurting her. “And there was a girl who loved skating, too, and they met because they both traveled all over the world to compete.”

“You and my mommy,” Emily says seriously, and Derek nods.

“Me and your mom, yes.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, clenches his fingers. “The boy loved skating a lot—and he was very good at it. But he thought he loved the girl more, and he wanted very much to have a family with her. But in the end, the girl loved skating more than she loved him.”

“I love you more than skating,” Emily says quietly, and Derek’s heart breaks for her.

“Me too, honey,” he murmurs to reassure her.

He sits down on her other side, takes her small hand in his. “When your mommy found out she was going to have you, she wanted to keep skating. But I wanted to be a family with you, even if your mommy wouldn’t be with us.”

“I know this,” Emily reminds him. “Mommy left. It’s okay.”

“Your mommy’s here,” Derek tells her softly. “And all those reporters, they wanted to know who you were. And why I stopped skating. And I had to tell them who your mommy was so that they’d let us be.”

Emily’s head tilts. She scooches closer to Stiles. “My mommy’s here?”

“And we’re going to all go together to see her skate,” Laura says cheerily. “Don’t you want to cheer for her?”

“No.” Emily shakes her head. “She doesn’t want me. I don’t want her.”

“Oh, honey.” Laura reaches for Emily, but she scrambles onto Stiles’s lap, twists around to bury her face against his chest.

Stiles opens his arms, looks up helplessly before he gently pats Emily’s shoulder. “I’m going with you,” he says. “You can sit with me, if you want.”

“Do I have to see her?” Emily asks.

Unfortunately.

“She’d like that, after she skates,” Derek says. When she’s talking to the reporters, and can play up the story to her own ends. Derek doesn’t care what Kate does as long as Emily’s not hurt by it. If Kate wants to make herself out to be the injured party, that’s fine. Derek’s just a coach now. He’s here with his daughter, and his focus has to be on Stiles.

They need to get through this so that the focus _can_ be on Stiles.

“Her name is Kate, and she’s part of Team USA,” Derek says. “Sometimes she’s not very nice, but I know she’s going to be very nice to you today. She’s very excited to meet you again. Do you remember her from the plane?”

Emily wrinkles her nose, lips pursed. A moment later her gaze swivels to look at Allison, and she blinks slowly, mouth opening just a bit like she’s trying to remember something.

Allison steps forward, one hand out. “I’m Allison. Scott’s my boyfriend. And Kate’s my aunt, so we’re actually cousins.”

Emily tilts her head again, blinks slowly. “You seem nice, and Scott’s nice, but Kate didn’t seem very nice. Do I have to call her mommy?”

“You can call her Kate,” Derek says.

“I don’t know, imagine her screaming _mommy_ across a crowded rink at Kate,” Stiles says idly. “Just think how entertaining that could be.”

“You really are an asshole,” Erica laughs, as Boyd claps a hand over her mouth and Emily shouts gleefully that Erica said a bad word.

“Can I sit with Stiles and Allison at the rink?” Emily asks, sliding off the bed and picking up her jacket. She holds it out to Derek so he can help her put it on.

“That’s up to Stiles and Allison.” Derek doesn’t expect anything from anyone else when it comes to his daughter, unless they’re family and have offered. But Stiles holds out his hand and Emily takes it, slipping her other hand into Allison’s. By the time they make it to the rink, Emily is chattering to Allison as if she’s known her forever.

They pass by the skaters waiting for their turn on the ice for a quick warm-up. Allison raises her hand, smiles brightly as they pass by and points so that Emily can pick Kate out of the crowd.

“Isn’t she old to be in the Olympics?” Emily asks, and Derek picks her up to quickly shush her, but not before Kate notices. The glower is swiftly replaced by a bland smile, and a cheery hello. Emily doesn’t see the kiss Kate blows her way, but Derek stares at Kate in response, until Kate turns away.

Thirty competitors makes for a long time for a five year old girl to sit still. Emily’s fidgeting by the time the second group of five warms up on the ice, and Kate’s not slated to go until the third group.

“We can take her for a walk,” Erica offers, raising her hand linked with Boyd’s.

Derek’s gaze drifts to the halls that lead into the back, where skaters are waiting, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want her out of my sight today,” he admits. “It’s too risky.”

“We could go down and wish Kate luck.” Allison’s bright smile is innocent. Stiles exchanges a look with Derek, and Derek gets the feeling that Allison’s innocence is a beautiful veneer. Allison blinks, her smile going wider, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Can I watch her skate from kiss and cry?” Emily asks, and Derek sighs. He’s going to lose this argument, no matter how hard he tries.

The first skater in the second group takes the ice, finds her position and strikes a pose. Derek leans past Stiles, his shoulder pressing into Stiles’s chest, and touches Emily’s forehead. “As soon as this one is done skating,” he murmurs. “We don’t want to disturb anyone by walking out while she performs. That would be rude.”

The music begins, and Emily leans forward, watching avidly. Sitting still might be a trial, but Emily loves to watch people skate. Derek wonders how much longer he has before she’ll ask to be out there on the ice with them, trying her hardest to win her own medals. It’s in her blood, so it’s only a matter of time.

As soon as the music stops, Emily slides out of her seat and reaches for Stiles’s hand, yanking until he stands. “Let’s go,” she orders, and Derek almost laughs at her imperious tone.

“Be polite,” he reminds her, and she sighs.

“ _Please_ , let’s go,” she says, sighing again, tugging hard until Stiles goes with her.

Allison joins them, while the others remain behind to watch. Scott grabs Allison’s hand on her way by, tugging her down to whisper something in her ear; Allison smiles sweetly and kisses his cheek in response.

Once they reach the stairs, Emily tucks one hand into Stiles’s grip, and takes Allison’s hand with the other, and skips happily between them while Derek trails behind.

Derek’s fairly certain that his daughter hasn’t planned this declaration of loyalties, but he knows exactly how it will look to Kate. She won’t be pleased.

The scores for the first of this round of five are announced, and the second skater takes the ice. Her music sounds while they walk around the outside of the rink toward the kiss and cry and the hall that leads back to the ready area. Derek hears whispers, blinks when a flash goes off. They’ve been spotted by reporters.

It won’t be long until Kate comes out.

Allison pauses at the entrance to the hall, crouches down by Emily. “That’s where the skaters get ready. Stiles was there yesterday, remember? You went back there with him after he skated; Scott told me he saw you with him. I didn’t get in until later or I would’ve been here to see Stiles skate. I really wanted to be here for him, but my flights got all messed up.”

“Stiles is going to win,” Emily says plainly. “It’s okay you missed his first program. You’ll be here tomorrow.”

“And you’re here for mine. What a wonderful surprise, niece. You should’ve told me you were coming before yesterday. I had to scramble to get those tickets.” Kate emerges from the hall, her blades sheathed as she walks toward them. She holds her arms wide, smile expectant. “It’s such a pleasure to see you, especially when my own brother couldn’t make it.”

“Dad’s busy with work.” Allison rises smoothly, embraces Kate with a perfunctory hug and kiss on the cheek. “I barely got away, but Stiles is worth it. And I got to meet Emily and Derek, which was an added bonus.”

Kate’s gaze skims over Derek, lips pursed in a familiar almost-scowl. She skims past Stiles, gaze shifting until it drops and she looks down at Emily, a small smile tilting her lips. “Well, hello again. We met on the plane.”

“I remember.” Emily takes a step back, winds her hand tighter in Stiles’s. “You asked about my mommy. That’s mean. You already knew who my mommy is.”

Kate’s smile never falters. “I did,” she admits. “But your daddy didn’t tell you, and maybe that was mean, too.”

“You left,” Emily says flatly. “That’s the meanest.”

Kate crouches down, reaches out to touch Emily’s cheek. “I’m here now.”

Several flashes go off, commemorating this moment before Emily pulls back, crosses her arms. “I’m going to watch you skate,” Emily says. “I want to watch by the kiss and cry.” She tilts her chin, small mouth pursed tightly. “I hope you do good. Daddy says you’re very good, like a princess.”

“I’m so glad you’re here for me,” Kate says quietly, and Emily’s eyebrows go up. It’s so much like seeing himself in a mirror that Derek snorts softly at her expression.

“No, you’re not. Kate,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“You can call me mommy.”

Emily’s eyebrows tilt up even further, and she shakes her head. “No.”

“Kate.” Derek touches her shoulder, distracts her while Stiles picks Emily up. He and Allison drift away, putting space between Emily and Kate but remaining well within Derek’s line of sight. He appreciates their consideration for his worries about letting her go somewhere without him today.

Kate rises in fluid motion, turns to embrace him, a bit too long, her kiss on his cheek straying too close to his mouth for comfort. “Derek.”

The cameras capture that moment as well; it’s easy to imagine the caption painting this as a sweethearts’ reunion.

He grips her shoulders, sets her back from him firmly, putting any potential rumors to rest. “Don’t, Kate. That’s long past.”

“Is it?” Her head tilts exactly like Emily’s does when she’s challenging him. “I’ve heard the rumors already, Derek, that you chose to be a house-husband so I could continue my career. That we’ve continued our relationship in quiet, hiding out in that mausoleum that you call a home. Doesn’t it sound like the perfect family?”

“It isn’t true.” His voice is low. Flat. His gaze flicks to Stiles and Allison before returning to meet Kate’s directly. “You wanted nothing to do with Emily, and that’s what you got, Kate. She’s my family, and you are nothing to her. She’s here, and she’ll watch you skate. And if you want to watch her skate when she starts competing, nothing’s stopping you. But I won’t go out of my way for you.”

Kate leans in close, presses her lips to his ear. “You used to be so much easier to control, Derek,” she whispers. “Something’s changed. Is it him? Is it that boy you went out and found? He’s not your future, Derek. He doesn’t know you like I do. And if you think he doesn’t want something from you, too, you’re lying to yourself. You promised to help him win, and that’s all he wants. I see how you look at him.”

Derek’s jaw tightens, and he pushes her back, all too aware of the cluster of reporters around them. “We’ll be here until you’re done skating, Kate. Don’t expect anything else while we’re in PyeongChang. In fact, keep your distance. We had an agreement, and if you decide to violate your part in it, then I’m not going to be held to my side.” He doesn’t need to make the threat specific; she flinches at the idea that he could go into detail about exactly how much he paid her to carry Emily, and why. He smiles thinly, lets it grow into a sharp grin that makes her take a step back. She thinks he won’t do it, that he’s too _nice_. Kate hasn’t taken Emily’s importance in Derek’s life into account.

“Don’t test me,” Derek murmurs. “She’s mine. Leave her and myself alone. And leave Stiles alone; he doesn’t need your brand of trouble.”

He walks away before she gets a chance to reply. She’ll talk to the reporters, smooth things over, somehow make herself look good. It’s what Kate Argent does.

Derek takes Emily from Stiles’s arms, leans into the hug Stiles offers, accepts the kiss on the cheek from Allison.

“If it’s any consolation,” Allison says, “we don’t like her all that much, either. There’s a reason Dad’s not here to see her skate and it has nothing to do with work. I’m really here only for Stiles.”

It’s not exactly a consolation, but it does ease the tightness in his chest to know that others see her for who she is, and that they will rally around his daughter to protect her. They all close ranks around Emily, lifting her so she can see Kate skate.

They don’t join her in the kiss and cry when it’s all done, leaving as soon as scores are announced.

Later, when the interviews air, and Kate blames the unexpected trauma for her disappointing twelfth place standing, Derek realizes that he doesn’t care.

“Kate’s not nice,” Emily says quietly, looking at the television, and Derek squeezes her hard.

“Kate’s not nice at all, but that’s okay, because she won’t be in our lives any more than you want her to be,” he says to her and holds on tight. “You don’t ever have to see her again.”

#

Emily insists on sticking close to Derek on the final day of Stiles’s competition. He has her on his hip as he leans on the wall during the warmup skate. Stiles does lazy footwork, a few spins and an easy double, then twists to head back to where they stand.

Stiles leans on the wall, turns his cheek to Emily. “Kiss for luck?” he asks.

Emily holds onto Derek as she sways toward Stiles, gives him a messy kiss on the cheek. “All the luck!” she yells, loud enough that both Jackson and Nikiforov turn to look. “Go win gold!!”

“What about you?” Stiles asks, and for a moment Derek thinks that Stiles is asking him for a kiss for luck as well. Heat floods Derek’s skin, and he swallows hard.

“I already know you’re going to win gold,” Derek says quietly. “Just go out there and seduce the judges. Dance like you want to take them home.”

Stiles licks his lips, blinks once, smile quirking. “Seduce the judges. Right,” he replies, twisting away with a small spin, arms up as he goes faster. He comes out of the spin with his toe pick dug into the ice, executing a flourishing bow. “Just watch,” he says. “Because you are going to see a gold medal long program that no one will ever forget.”

“You’re not going yet,” Derek says, glancing at the others warming up. Stiles is in the last group, thanks to his current rank, and he’s lucky enough to skate next to last. Only Nikiforov skates after him. “We’ll join you in the back while you wait.”

Stiles shakes his head, holds up both hands. An announcement asks the skaters to clear the ice, and Stiles waves at someone on the other side. “Don’t worry, I want you right here. I want Emily to be able to see everything, and I want you waiting at the kiss and cry for me after I’m done. Scott and Allison are going to be in the back with me, and my dad’s up in the audience with Laura, Erica, and Boyd. Everything’s under control.”

Derek should be with him. As a good coach—as a friend. Derek takes a step forward, and Stiles grins, skating backwards.

“I’ve got this. Go Team USA,” Stiles tells him. He holds up his hand; Jackson gives him a dubious look as he skates by, then smacks his hand hard enough to leave Stiles shaking it. Stiles spins in place, arms spread out. “You stay right here and judge me.”

Judge him.

Be seduced.

Derek’s mouth snaps shut and he nods slowly without another word. Stiles turns and skates away quickly, meeting Scott and Allison on the other side. At this point, there’s nothing Derek can do other than watch, and it’s killing him.

“I like Stiles,” Emily whispers, tilting her head against his shoulder.

“Me too,” Derek admits. More than he should, more than he’s going to say to anyone.

The first programs go by in a blur. Emily claps for Jackson enthusiastically, and again when his scores go up and he’s in first place.

“It’s okay,” Emily says. “Jackson isn’t entirely awful. He can get bronze. Isaac should get silver, and Stiles gets gold.”

“Isaac’s currently ranked third,” Derek reminds her gently. “If Stiles or Nikiforov does better than Jackson, he’s not going to medal.”

“Oh.” Emily pouts, lower lip stuck out. “That’s not fair.”

“There are a lot of good skaters here,” Derek tells her. “It takes a lot of hard work just to get to the Olympics. These are the thirty best men’s skaters in the entire world, and that’s impressive all by itself.” When she doesn’t smile, he adds, “and if you want to throw a _congratulations you were in the Olympics_ party for Isaac after we get home, you can. With cake.”

“And ice cream?” Emily’s smile quirks, just barely.

“With ice cream, too,” Derek agrees. If he’s going to spoil her, it’s not a bad way to do it, doing something nice for a family friend. And he wants Isaac to visit while they have some rest time after the Olympics, before he has to start training in earnest with Orlov for the next round of competition.

He also doesn’t want to think too hard about what happens after the Olympics. Whether Stiles might move on to working with Orlov, now that he’s known, or whether he’ll want to keep working with Derek in his small private rink. Stiles is the kind of skater who deserves to be seen, to compete, and Derek isn’t sure he can offer that long-term as a coach. He has Emily Joy to consider.

“Daddy!” Emily clutches at his collar, tugs to get his attention.

Stiles is taking the ice.

“Derek.” Laura’s voice, a touch to his shoulder. Derek glances at her, hands over Emily when Laura reaches for her.

He can’t look away from Stiles.

Stiles reaches his place on the ice, lets his limbs fall loosely into position, then raises one arm up over his head. His gaze seems to fall on Derek, even though Derek knows it’s an illusion; the judges are somewhere above Derek.

But Derek stares back, clinging to the top of the wall with fingers gone white from the pressure.

The music begins, and Stiles turns slowly on one skate. When he strikes out for his footwork pass, he’s heading straight for Derek. For just a moment, before Stiles turns, Derek swears they lock gazes, and Stiles’s smile quirks up, his tongue flicking over his lips. Then he twists away into a quick combination jump; the crowd screams.

It builds from there as Stiles skates with pure passion and joy. Long arms extend, reaching, pulling back, teasing and tormenting until Derek’s twisted up inside with unexpected longing. His grips goes even tighter when Stiles throws the new quad in the first half, barely relaxing when he lands it cleanly.

Derek can see the moment when Stiles starts to flag, exhaustion setting in. The long program is exactly that: long, and intense, and designed to show exactly how much stamina a skater has. They receive higher scores for executing jumps with greater difficulty in the latter half of the program, when their legs are burning from exhaustion.

Stiles’s program slows down for a moment, circles and entices, teasing the viewer to follow him. A moment later Stiles is flying, Derek’s heart flying with him. He counts the rotations—one, two, three, four, then one, two, three right after that. He punches the air and shouts when Stiles lands on one blade and skates into his footwork combination.

Derek can’t tear his eyes off of Stiles, gaze dropped to his hips as Stiles shimmies through his last footwork run. Stiles drops into a spin, glancing up at the end and this time, Derek is positive that Stiles looks directly at him. Stares at him as he reaches out, grips the air and tugs as if reeling him in. Derek leans over the wall as Stiles leans forward, pushes himself into a slide on one knee, then arches up at the end, reaching high, hips thrust up on the final note.

Silence for one brief moment as the last echoing note fades, then thundering applause and screams. Flowers and stuffed animals rain down on the ice as Stiles kneels there, chest heaving from exertion. Stiles comes to his feet slowly, looks at Derek, and the nearby gate.

Derek moves to the gate, has it open before Stiles gets there. Stiles doesn’t stop, reaching the gate at full speed, throwing his arms over Derek’s shoulders and tugging him forward into an awkward, enthusiastic kiss. Derek wraps his arms around him, holds on tight as the applause rings in his ears, and the bright lights of cameras flash around him.

It’s not appropriate. He shouldn’t do this, and at the same time, there is nothing on this world that can convince him to stop.

The kiss ends with a gentle nip to his lip before Stiles pulls back slightly. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Derek says softly.

“Were you seduced?” Stiles touches Derek’s cheek lightly. “I know you said seduce the judges, and I really hope it worked the way you thought it would for them, but honestly, the only person in this audience that I wanted to seduce was you. So please say you’re seduced, and not just horrified by my awkward dance moves and my potentially over-enthusiastic post-workout greeting.”

Derek cradles the back of Stiles’s head carefully, draws him close to kiss him again. Slow this time, careful and easy, exploring his mouth in luxurious slow motion.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s mouth.

Derek huffs a laugh, whispers, “Yes.”

“Daddy! Stiles!” Small hands tug at his shoulder, and Derek blinks to see Emily in Laura’s arms, reaching for Derek. “They want you to go to kiss and cry,” Emily says seriously. “You can kiss there.”

Heat suffuses Derek’s cheeks, and he’s gratified to see that Stiles is just as red. “Let’s go get your scores,” Derek mutters.

“I could say something about scoring, but I’m pretty sure that’s rushing things.” Stiles speaks so quietly that Derek isn’t sure he heard it, until he sees the flush on Stiles’s cheeks intensify. “And that was my outside voice,” Stiles mutters. “Um. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Derek drops a hand to the small of Stiles’s back, guides him into the booth. Emily clambers onto the bench between them, grabs Stiles’s hand with both of hers and holds on tight.

The scores are good. Incredible, actually, and the audience erupts, screaming joyfully in response. Stiles stands up as soon as the scores are announced, bows and blows kisses. Emily tugs at his arms and he scoops her up, kissing the top of her head before she starts waving to the audience as well.

Nikiforov is already taking the ice by the time they finally leave the booth and head into the back.

Everyone else is waiting for them, creating a wall between Stiles and the reporters. Scott grabs Stiles, hugs him hard and ruffles his hair. Allison gives him a quick kiss on the cheek, and Erica grabs him for a full kiss on the lips.

“What?” she asks. “I thought that was how we were celebrating now!” She laughs as Boyd tugs her out of the way, making space for the Sheriff to get a long hug in, whispering something none of them can hear.

It makes Stiles smile though, even if his ears are pink.

The monitors are showing the rink, and Derek nudges Stiles. “Do you want to see Nikiforov skate?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I don’t care if it’s gold or silver right now; that was the best program I’ve ever done on the ice, and I’m feeling pretty high. Nothing’s going to bring that down.”

“Mieczysław Stilinski!” One of the reporters waves, holds his microphone toward them.

Emily pushes it out of Stiles’s face. “Don’t you bother my Stiles,” she grumbles.

“It’s okay.” Stiles carefully sets Emily down, makes sure that Derek has her hand before he gives his attention to the reporter. “You’re just going to be a pain in the ass until we talk. So ask away. What do you want to know?”

“This has been an incredible month for you,” the reporter says. “Out of all of it, what has been the most incredible moment?”

Stiles’s gaze flicks to Derek, lingers on his mouth. Stiles licks his lips, turns back to the reporter with a grin. “It was at Nationals, actually, when I came out of the locker room after getting changed. And there was Derek Hale, in a fucking leather jacket, leaning against the wall, waiting for me. And he told me that he was going to coach me to Olympic gold.”

“That moment?” the reporter asks, expression dubious.

“That one moment led to everything else,” Stiles says quietly. “It meant I went to New York. I trained with Derek, and I met his incredible family. I came here and I pulled quads I didn’t think I had in me. And I skated the program of my life. But it all started because Derek showed up at Nationals and he picked me.”

“It started when you decided to learn my Worlds’ routines and had Scott post them to YouTube,” Derek says dryly.

“Oh, I like that, let’s blame Scott for everything. Did you hear that, buddy?” Stiles laughs.

“If it means I don’t have to watch you swallow each other’s tonsils again, I will agree to anything you say,” Scott tells him.

Stiles jabs a finger at him. “I have known you and Allison for years, dude, and you do not get to be all innocent on this one. Not after the things I’ve witnessed.”

“Interview’s over,” Laura says quietly, cutting between Stiles and the reporter. “I’ll arrange for a formal press conference for you tomorrow,” she tells Stiles. “After everything’s done here. You need some time to decompress, I think. And work things out. That is, if you want me to act as your assistant—I’ve done it for Derek, and I’m not half bad at it.”

Derek nods when Stiles looks at him, and Stiles’s shoulders relax. “Please,” Stiles says. “I need the help, and I trust you. Almost as much as I trust him.”

“Nikiforov’s scores are coming up!” Erica swats at Derek to get his attention.

He wraps an arm around Stiles’s shoulders, tugs him closer while they watch the screen.

“I’m okay,” Stiles murmurs as soon as the scores are posted. The screaming from the rink is audible even in the back, and he watches as Nikiforov on the screen takes his bow from the kiss and cry booth. Stiles’s eyes are bright, crinkled at the corner, and he smiles when he looks at Derek. “I promise, I’m okay.”

“It was three tenths of a point!” Erica shakes her head, throws her hands in the air. “Three tenths of a point!”

Derek leans closer to Stiles, presses his lips to his ear so he can whisper, “You’ll just have to beat him at Worlds.”

#

“Don’t worry, I’ve got Emily Joy for the night,” Laura says. “I know you don’t want to let her out of your sight, but you could use some private time.”

Derek’s face is hot. He rubs at the back of his neck, looks at where Stiles and Scott seem to be playing some variation of rock/paper/scissors with Emily. “We don’t need privacy that desperately, Laura,” he mutters. “Yes, we need to talk, but nothing else is happening. I’ll text you when you should bring Emily back. I want her with me, tonight.”

Laura tsks, pats him on the back. “You can text me if you change your mind, too.” She walks away to gather up Emily, waiting until the game finishes so she can pry her away from Scott and Stiles.

Stiles hugs the Sheriff again, leans against his father for a long time before the Sheriff finally disengages to herd Allison and Scott away. Erica and Boyd had already left right after the medal ceremony.

Now it’s just Stiles and Derek.

Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks onto his toes and then back again. “So. I should probably at least drop my bag off at my room.”

“We’re not—” Derek cuts himself off, ducks his gaze. “Look. We’re not going to—I mean….”

“I didn’t think we were.” Stiles hoists his bag over his shoulder. “We’re going to get dinner. We’re going to make out for hours. And then I am going to sleep because I don’t think I’ve had a good night’s sleep in ages. I don’t have to be in the rink tomorrow morning! It’s a miracle!”

“You still have an exhibition skate to do,” Derek points out, and Stiles stops mid-step.

“You’re right. I do.” Stiles blinks, cocks his head, thoughtful. “Give me a moment on that. There’s something… let me back burner that.”

“We do have some things to work out,” Derek says. They head toward the shuttle, moving with slow steps, as if leaving the rink is going to somehow break the magic spell around them.

“Please tell me you’re not already regretting the kiss.” Stiles makes a face. “I’m not the most attractive guy around, I know. I’m skinny, and I flail a lot. Baby deer on the ice, I know what they say about me. But that kiss—you were into it, right?”

“Very.” Derek settles a hand on Stiles’s back, curls his fingers against him before he slides his grip down to the angle of Stiles’s hip. “I was more thinking that we’ve done what we set out to do.”

“I didn’t win gold.”

“I coached you to the Olympics,” Derek corrects. “You almost won gold—and as far as I’m concerned, against Nikiforov that might be as good as winning. We never talked about what comes next.”

Stiles bites his lip. “I’m not going back to Deaton.”

“Orlov would take you,” Derek points out, his heart hammering hard enough that it aches in his chest. “You beat both Isaac and Jackson. Orlov would love to get his hands on you.”

“Gross, yeah, no.” Stiles shakes his head. He blinks as they exit the arena, turns to catch Derek’s hands and slide in close. “Derek, the only coach I want to get his hands on me is you. Besides. How am I going to beat Nikiforov at Worlds without you?”

Derek’s mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Stiles grins, leans in to kiss him, and Derek takes the easy way out. He cradles Stiles’s head, lingers over the kiss, flicking his tongue along the seam of Stiles’s lips until his mouth opens.

He could do this all day. Making out for hours sounds like a great idea.

“Is it too soon to ask you to move in?” Derek murmurs, pausing as soon as he realizes how that sounds. He takes a quick step backwards, one hand up in apology. “I mean. To train. And with me, yes, but Erica and Boyd and Laura are all there.” It occurs to Derek that Stiles has been there for the last few weeks, and he hasn’t been alone, either. “Does that mean Scott’s coming with you?”

“Scott wants Allison to move in with him if I’m moving out.” Stiles licks his lips, darts in to kiss Derek quickly. “I mean, even before this, I figured I’d be staying with you so we could train. Do you not want to train me anymore, because of…?”

“I’m not sure I’m the right coach,” Derek admits.

“You are the perfect coach for me.” Stiles’s expression is set and stubborn. “Did you see what you accomplished with me in two weeks? Imagine when we’ve got months.”

“I’ve got Emily Joy,” Derek reminds him gently. “She’s my first priority. I don’t know how it’ll work if I have to travel with you to international competitions.”

“I’ve got maybe eight more years in me,” Stiles says frankly. “At least one more Olympics, maybe two if I’m really lucky. Emily’s five. We could home school her, right? They’ve got those home school groups out there, so she’d still have friends and a whole social life. Even activities and sports and everything. If she wants to do anything other than skating.”

“She was born with skates on,” Derek mutters dryly. Listening to Stiles makes it all sound reasonable. Achievable. “But she’ll be thirteen in eight years. She’ll want to go to school.”

“And I’ll quit then. And we’ll coach together.” Stiles shrugs one shoulder. “If we can still stand each other by that point. Things could change. I’m not easy to get along with, and—”

Derek cuts him off with another kiss. “Let’s not talk about that far down the road. It’s only been two weeks; maybe we should take it one year at a time.”

“I’m all for that.” Stiles pulls away finally, threads their hands together. “And I have an idea for the exhibition skate.”

“Oh?” Derek raises an eyebrow.

“You didn’t go to Sochi, and I’m assuming you were going to do a variation on your prior Worlds routine, yeah?” Stiles waits for Derek to nod, before he starts describing, gesturing with his hands. “I have a song in mind, and you’ll teach me the changes, and we’ll get the routine fit to the music, and you’ll skate it with me. I get my Olympics lap around the rink, and you finally get your proper farewell.” He squeezes, glances over. “Say yes.”

It all seems so easy when Stiles says it, as if they have a future and hope, and it might all work out. As if they have not just this moment, but so many more moments, stretching on ahead of them.

All Derek has to do is say the word.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> <3 to everyone!! You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) and if you'd like to check out my original writing, please take a look at [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com).


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